Fate, at first so amenable, so reasonable, so open to negotiation, ends up by exacting a cruel revenge for happiness.

Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words on the other hand, were a lifeline. They left their hushed rhythm behind, a counter to the slow in and out of Emmeline's breathing.

Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so.

She was a do-gooder, which means that all the ill she did, she did without realizing it.

Boys do not leave their boyhood behind when they leave off their school uniform.

I read *old* novels. The reason is simple. I prefer proper endings.

To anyone who took the trouble to look, I was plainly visible, but when people are expecting to see nothing, that is usually what they see.