Everyone thinks writers must know more about the inside of the human head, but that's wrong. They know less, that's why they write. Trying to find ou… - Margaret Atwood

She talks with wolves, without knowing what sort of beasts they are:
Where have you been all my life? they ask.
Where have I been all my life? she replies.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I took the one most travelled by. It was littered with corpses, as such roads are. But as you will have noticed, my own corpse is not among them.

She did not believe he was a monster. He was not a monster, to her. Probably he had some endearing trait: he whistled, off key, in the shower, he had a yen for truffles, he called his dog Liebchen and made it sit up for pieces of raw steak. How easy it is to invent a humanity, for anyone at all.