Dear Mr. Knightley

Love spills out of these people. That's what I want. Settling for anything less is a lie.

And, Mr. Knightley, forget my theory about Icarus. If you don't sail high, with the risk of crashing and burning, do you really live? Can you love? I doubt it. I'm ready to fly. Love, Sam

Maybe that’s what love is—sacrificing yourself to save another, taking the insult or taking the hit.

The day we forget the horror, Sam, we will repeat it. Never forget your past. It will make you less human, less than human.

Never let something so unworthy define you.

I’ve heard all sorts of things about a kiss (melting, fireworks, music), but no one ever told me it’s a conversation: asking, accepting, deciding, inviting, giving . . . Questions posed and answered.

Do you ever feel like there are plans for you? Not ones you make, but plans for good that will come about if you trust and remain patient?

Maybe that's what love is—sacrificing yourself to save another, taking the insult or taking the hit.

My new favorite title is How Jane Austen Ruined My Life. I don't have the courage to read it, though. I'm afraid to discover she's ruined mine as well.

And it’s yellow. The way pale yellow should look, like sunshine and butter, mixed with hope and cream.

How can I not believe that there is a God who exists and loves, when the people before me are infused with that love and pour it out daily?

Self-protection keeps you from love, Mr. Knightley-all love. I am so sad at how I've kept them at a distance-the Muirs, Alex, Father John, Kyle, Hannah...Anyone and everyone who has ever stood by me. I played God in our relationships. I determined their value by how much I let them in, by how much I let them determine my worth. I'm not God. And I don't need to work so hard anymore...

My childhood wasn't easy. I buried myself in books. I guess I'm a recovering book addict.

We didn't talk much, and the silence hung like a silk curtain, light and lovely.

Samantha will be just as polite as I am, my dear. She won't be objective at all... no wait! She corrected my Shakespeare. Maybe she will give you an honest opinion. Let's keep her.

I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

People forget your face after a book tour or an infrequent appearance on Letterman, but put your face on your books and you're handing them your life. They presume to know what you think or who you are.

But I made it. And for some reason, I’m not worried about my job prospects. I truly believe I will be okay.

He reminds me of a comfortable sweater that you pull on, knowing it will keep you warm every time.

Darcy’s got the tempestuous masculinity and brooding looks, but Knightley is a kinder, softer man with no pretense or dissimilation.

vulnerability and hurt. A lot of things happen below the surface, don’t you think? A jab, a deflection, a hit, then pain—all hidden beneath exquisite manners and an aura of sophistication.

The room was dark and crowded, and smelled like history and cheeseburgers.

The window dressing may change, but as Austen shows us: human nature remains the same.

Have you ever confused your senses? Something taste like another thing smells?

Honesty is easier when you have no face and no real name. And honesty, for me, is very easy on paper.

My dear, what in your life has ever come close to fair? That’s not how this life works.

Changing, being real and becoming who you want to be, is hard work. Right

Your options are endless if you fight.

Yes, Marianne. She lost her sense of right and wrong. She thought that because loving Willoughby felt good, it had to be right

Do you know what that's like? A gun held to your head? Your life doesn't flash before your eyes; it stops. Mine stopped, and there was nothing, nothing in me. I didn't exist.