I think words operate like musical notes that the eyeball hears.

For me, novels coalesce into being, rather than arrive fully formed.

A half-read book is a half-finished love affair.

It's a small world. It keeps recrossing itself.

I remain thankful to God for all his mercies.

'Y' is about the weakest letter of all. 'Y' can't make up its mind if it's a vowel or a consonant, can it?

History admits no rules; only outcomes.