It was over now, and the meaningless world was tolerable and need not be explained. And never would it be, and how foolish I had ever been to think so.
Anne RiceWhen we talk about our lives, long or short, brief and tragic or enduring beyond comprehension, we impose a continuity on them, and that continuity is a lie.
Anne RiceIt was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow, there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I’d envision his face.
Anne Rice