He'd half meant to speak but those eyes had altered the world forever in the space of a heartbeat.

It was the nature of his profession that his experience with death should be greater than for most and he said that while it was true that time heals bereavement it does so only at the cost of the slow extinction of those loved ones from the heart's memory which is the sole place of their abode then or now. Faces fade, voices dim. Seize them back, whispered the sepulturero. Speak with them. Call their names. Do this and do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift.

You are either born a writer or you are not.

I look for the words, Professor. I look for the words because I believe that the words is the way to your heart.

He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

He believed in God even if he was doubtful of men's claims to know God's mind. But that a God unable to forgive was no God at all.

He looked at a world of incredible loveliness. Old distaff Celt's blood in some back chamber of his brain moved him to discourse with the birches, with the oaks. A cool green fire kept breaking in the woods and he could hear the footsteps of the dead. Everything had fallen from him. He scarce could tell where his being ended or the world began nor did he care. He lay on his back in the gravel, the earth's core sucking his bones, a moment's giddy vertigo with this illusion of falling outward through blue and windy space, over the offside of the planet, hurtling through the high thin cirrus.