Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.

Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.

Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself. You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world. You bring your history and you read it in your own terms.

Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.

A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.

Your thin white face, chérie; he said, as if he saw it for the first time. Your thin white face, with its promise of debauchery only a connoisseur could detect.

In a secular age, an authentic miracle must purport to be a hoax, in order to gain credit in the world.