Lev Grossman

Drinks were a lot like books, really: it didn’t matter where you were, the contents of a vodka tonic were always more or less the same, and you could count on them to take you away to somewhere better or at least make your present arrangements seem more manageable.

Plum needed to get moving, but she was having trouble attaching meanings to things; the meanings kept peeling off like old stickers.

What she wanted was to hide herself from herself.