There was never an accident.Rebecca was not drowned at all. I killed her.I shot Rebecca in the cottage in the cove.I carried her body to the cabin, and took the boat out that night and sunk it there, where they found it today.It's Rebecca who's lying dead there on the cabin floor.Will you look into my eyes and tell me that you love me now?

So you see, when war comes to one’s village, one’s doorstep, it isn’t tragic and impersonal any longer. It is just an excuse to vomit private hatred. That is why I am not a great patriot.

I could not ask forgiveness for something I had not done. As scapegoat, I could only bear the fault.

People who mattered could not take the humdrum world. But this was not the world, it was enchantment; and all of it was mine.

I had build up false pictures in my mind and sat before them. I had never had the courage to demand the truth.

I believe there is a theory that men and women emerge finer and stronger after suffering, an that to advance in this or any world we must endure ordeal by fire." (From Rebecca)

Women want love to be a novel, men a short story.