If I now recognize evil in other people, is it not because I have become evil too?

He asked if he could recite a poem he had written that morning: 'You speak,' he said, 'the language of shooting stars, more surprising than sunrise, more brilliant than the sun, as brief as sunset. I want to follow its trail to eternity.

Now they seemed to be in a contest over who could irritate her more, and she sometimes had to remind herself that teenagers had souls

In [writing] fiction, every sentence is its own reward.

They know where happiness lies, not in a cave or a country, but in love and the freedom to give and take what has been there all along.

So much of history is mystery. We don't know what is lost forever, what will surface again. All objects exist in a moment of time. And that fragment of time is preserved or lost or found in mysterious ways. Mystery is a wonderful part of life.

If I now recognize evil in other people, is it not because I have become evil too?