But I know that any man whose very presence incites me to nearly throw away my reputation-or whatever shreds of it remain-is someone I must avoid at any cost.

I self-medicate with fat, carbohydrates, and Jane Austen, my number one drug of choice, my constant companion through every breakup, every disappointment, every crisis. Men might come and go, but Jane Austen was always there. In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, till death do us part.

It seems there is nothing I cannot find out from my oracle, the computer.

What couldn’t I do now, having already committed such a breach of fashion logic and lived to tell the tale? Why couldn’t I pretend to be a woman with a solid core of self-worth, who likes herself no matter what the nearest handsome man or evil mother thinks of her?

I cannot imagine a world in which one can read Jane Austen only once.

What she said was something about trusting that everything, no matter how horrible it might seem at the moment, ultimately turns out to be a blessing.

Most of us walk through our daily lives as if we were asleep. We regard not what is before our eyes. We see not how we construct fantasies of our own and others’ intentions without having the smallest knowledge of what we, or they, are truly about. We are all imaginists, storytellers if you will, and the pity is that none of us recognizes his sorry state.

Tonight, however, all I can think of is the juxtaposition of destiny and free will, and whether it makes no difference what I do, or all the difference in the world.

Only a fool would wish to go back who he was.

Our heart chooses for us, or a tiny whisper inside that is too faint for us to hear.