Words to me were magic. You could say a word and it could conjure up all kinds of images or feelings or a chilly sensation or whatever. It was amazing to me that words had this power.

But later that day, the streets of Kweilin were strewn with newspapers reporting great Kuomintang victories, and on top of these papers, like fresh fish from a butcher, lay rows of people - men, women and children who had never lost hope, but had lost their lives instead.

The life we receive is not always what we choose.

You should think about your character. Know where you are changing, how you will be changed, what cannot be changed back again.

Secrets are kept from children, a lid on top of the soup kettle, so they do not boil over with too much truth.

With each passing day, I didn't lose hope. I fought to have more.

I think we often write because we feel a loneliness, and people read for the same reason, and then they come away feeling a little less lonely.