His own life seemed so solitary, a fragile column supporting nothing amidst the wreckage of the years.

The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.

Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons--throw it to some human being or some human idea. They have to.

Don't you loathe it when doctors use the word 'we' when it applies only and solely to yourself?

I do not have any home. So why should I be homesick?

It was like they waited to tell each other things that had never been told before. What she had to say was terrible and afraid. But what he would tell her was so true that it would make everything all right. Maybe it was a thing that could not be spoken with words or writing. Maybe he would have to let her understand this in a different way. That was the feeling she had with him.

I must go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.