Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry. “And what is beauty?” “Terror.

When I looked at the painting I felt the same convergence on a single point: a flickering sun-struck instance that existed now and forever. Only occasionally did I notice the chain on the finch's ankle, or think what a cruel life for a little living creature - fluttering briefly, forced always to land in the same hopeless place.

I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.

The snow in the mountains was melting and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation.

...with a grief no less sharp for not being intimate with its object.

Beauty alters the grain of reality.

I love the tradition of Dickens, where even the most minor walk-on characters are twitching and particular and alive.