And gradually his memory slipped a little, as memories do, even those with so much love attached to them; as if there is an unconscious healing process within the mind which mends up in spite of our desperate determination never to forget.

And gradually his memory slipped a little, as memories do, even those with so much love attached to them; as if there is an unconscious healing process within the mind which mends up in spite of our desperate determination never to forget.

Belief doesn't rest on proof or existence...it rests on faith...without faith there is nothing.

What was sleep? A blessing, a respite from life, an echo of death, a demanding nuisance?

I have an editor in my head, that's why I can't read Harry Potter, because Rowling is such a lousy writer.

The lovely thing about being forty is that you can appreciate twenty-five-year-old men more.

How frightening, that one person could mean so much, so many things.