The war was about vanity, he said. It was about old men who couldn't look in the mirror anymore and so they sent the young out to die. Was was a get-together of the vain. They wanted it simple--hate your enemy, know nothing of him.

The world does not turn without moments of grace. Who cares how small.

The point of flight. To get rid of oneself. That was reason enough to fly.

The luxury of age was the giving up of vanity.

Ultimately, you can only ever write what you know. It's logically and philosophically impossible to write what you don't know.

It struck me that distant cities are designed precisely so you can know where you came from.

Sometimes, in life, nothing happens. But, sometimes, nothing happens beautifully.