This chick Marla Singer did not have testicular cancer. She was a liar. She had no diseases at all. I had seen her at Free and Clear, my blood parasite group Thursdays. Then at Hope, my bi-monthly sickle cell circle. And again at Seize the Day, my tuberculous Friday night. Marla… the big tourist. Her lie reflected my lie. Suddenly, I felt nothing. I couldn’t cry, so once again I couldn’t sleep.
Queen Margaery - breaker of awkward moments.
I don’t know if I want to be Cobie Smulders/Kat Dennings, or if I want to be on them. There is a very fine and a very blurred line between the two.
From the book:
'As he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them. Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy - nay any young man behind the counter would have done?'
- Chapter 9, ‘Lucy as a Work of Art’
"I remember when I first got together with Tim, he was talking about it, and saying he’d been marinating this idea of a musical. It was one of our talking points: 'We’ve got something in common, we both love Sweeney Todd!'"
-Helena Bonham Carter.