How could I know a famished heart will eat its mind? Can kill its body?
Trees're always a relief, after people.
She has to lose her pre-Copernican view of a universe revolving around herself.
The human world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed
What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.
She was widely read enough to appreciate my literary wit but not so widely read that she knew my sources. I like that in a woman.