A part of adolescence is feeling that there's no one else around who's enough like yourself to understand you.

Baseball is a game with a lot of waiting in it; it is a game with increasingly heightened anticipation of increasingly limited action.

I write very quickly; I rewrite very slowly. It takes me nearly as long to rewrite a book as it does to get the first draft. I can write more quickly than I can read.

I grew up in a family where, through my teenage years, I was expected to go to church on Sunday. It wasn't terribly painful. I thought some of the stories were neat; I liked some of the liturgy and some of the songs.

I wanted my cousins to like Owen, because I liked him – he was my best friend – but, at the same time, I didn’t want everything to be so enjoyable that I’d have to invite Owen to Sawyer Depot the next time I went. I was sure that would be disastrous. And I was nervous that my cousins would make fun of Owen; and I confess I was nervous that Owen would embarrass me – I am ashamed of feeling that, to this day.

When somebody touches you... and you really don’t wanna be touched, that’s not really being touched. You still got you inside of you. And nobody has touched you. Not really. You still got you inside of you. You believe that.

Without somehow destroying me in the process, how could God reveal himself in a way that would leave no room for doubt? If there was no room for doubt, there would be no room for me. – FREDERICK BUECHNER.

A loving couple will say things to each other – you know, Danny – just to make each other feel good about a situation, even if the situation isn’t good, or it they shouldn’t feel good about i,” Ketchum said. “A loving couple will make up their own rules, as if these made-up rules were as reliable or counted for as much as the rules everyone else tried to live by – if you know what I mean.

He was an obstetrician; he delivered babies into the world. His colleagues called this ‘the Lord’s work.’ And he was an abortionist; he delivered mothers, too. His colleagues called this ‘the Devil’s work,’ but it was all the Lord’s work to Wilbur Larch. As Mrs. Maxwell had observed: ‘The true physician’s soul cannot be too broad and gentle.

An aura of fate had marked him. He moved slowly; he often appeared to be lost in thought, or in his imagination – as if his future were predetermined, and he wasn’t resisting it.