When one is writing a novel in the first person, one must be that person.

I held out my arms to him and he came to me like a child.

If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.

Nothing like a cup of tea to make a person feel better, man or woman.

A familiar name on its own, however, does not carry its bearer far unless the talent is there, and the will to work.

Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.

She had to live in this bright, red gabled house with the nurse until it was time for her to die... I thought how little we know about the feelings of old people. Children we understand, their fears and hopes and make-believe.