The end of all stories, even if the writer forebears to mention it, is death, which is where time stops short. Sheherezade knew this, which is why she kept on spinning another story out of the bowels of the last one, never coming to a point where she could say: "This is the end." Because it would have been.

Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.

Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.

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

I haven't changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives, now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.

The lovely Hazard girls', they used to call them. Huh. Lovely is as lovely does; if they looked like what they behave like, they'd frighten little children.

I drew the curtains to conceal the sight of my father's farewell; my spite was sharp as broken glass.