The real beauty in life is that beauty can sometimes occur.

The job of the writer is to look at where he is now and make some sort of emotional sense of it, not only for that moment but for years to come.

Every man with his own peculiar vice. His will hardly rock heaven or hell.

People are good or half good or a quarter good, and it changes all the time- but even on the best day nobody's perfect.

I told him that I loved him and that I'd always love him and I felt like a child who throws a centavo into a fountain and then she has to tell someone her most extraordinary wish even though she knows that the wish should be kept secret and that, in telling it, she is quite probably losing it. He replied that I was not to worry, that the penny could come out of the fountain again and again and again.

Even if people laughed at the notion of goodness, if they found it sentimental, or nostalgic, it didn't matter -- it was none of those things, he said, and it had to be fought for.

Long ago, long ago. The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.