Let me tell you what happens when you cook down the syrup of loss over the open fire of sorrow: It solidifies into something else. Not grief, like you would expect, or even regret. No, it gets as thick as paste, black as ash; yet it isn't until you dip your finger in and feel that sharp taste dissolving on your tongue that you realise that this is anger in its purest form, unrefined; a substance to be weighed and measured and spread.

Jodi Picoult, Vanishing Acts, pg 87