I believe there is a kind of happiness to be found in every thing in life, in all that is good and pleasing, as well as in that which is sad or poignant.

Some of the most thrilling things in life are done on impulse.

A man who looks like Frodo just spent $150 on erotica books and asked for my phone number. I considered giving him yours just to spite you.

It was one thing to stay in one place If you were happy and fulfilled- that was simply living the good life. But what if you weren't fulfilled?

It is an interesting concept, is it not- the idea of never aging? Would it appeal to you, to be rich, beautiful, and eternally young?""I think everyone has a desire for perennial youth," I admitted, "but in the end, this is a Faustian, cautionary tale, about vanity and frivolity, and the dangers of trying to interfere with the basic laws of life and death. When I really think about it, I would not wish to be young for ever.""No? And why not?""Because I would be obliged to watch everyone I loved grow old and die.""What if that were not the case? What if there was one person whom you loved deeply, with whom you could live on for ever, under the same terms?"I hesitated, then said: "Perhaps then it would prove agreeable, as long it did not involve selling my soul to the Devil.

The feel of her body against his was exhilarating, driving all rational thought from his head. “All right, prepareyourself, Claire Brennan.”She looked up at him curiously. “Prepare myself forwhat?”He gazed at her affectionately. “Repeat your mantra, orwhatever it is you do. Because I’m about to kiss you.

Change often brings unimagined opportunity...If there is no struggle, there is no progress. To live in a safe cocoon- I believe that is not truly living. It is stagnation.

A line from The Picture of Dorian Gray kept running through my head- a line which, I thought, might have been written by the Devil himself:"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.

To my amazement, miraculously, the lid suddenly loosened and slid all the way open, revealing its hidden cargo: A stack of small paper booklets. Dozens and dozens of them. Booklets made of ordinary sheets of white writing paper, folded in half, and hand-stitched along the spine. Booklets in remarkably pristine condition, all covered in a small, neat handwriting that I instantly recognized. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could hardly breathe.