She keeps on hoping from a word from Penelope, but not in any strenuous way. She hopes as people who know better hope for undeserved blessings, spontaneous remissions, things of that sort.

She would live now, not read.

One drop of hatred in your soul will spread and discolor everything like a drop of black ink in white milk.

Who can ever say the perfect thing to the poet about his poetry?

I would have a flick of fear, as in a dream when you find yourself in the wrong building or have forgotten the time for the exam and understand that this is only the tip of some shadowy cataclysm or lifelong mistake.

A story ... has a sturdy sense of itself of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you.

Braininess is not attractive unless combined with some signs of elegance; class.