Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.

All autobiography is self-indulgent.

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

We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in sunshine or in shadow, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.

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.

All whispers and echoes from a past that is gone teem into the sleeper's brain, and he is with them, and part of them.

How simple life becomes when things like mirrors are forgotten.