I have to conclude that fiction is better at 'the truth' than a factual record.
There are no laws for the novel. There never have been, nor can there ever be.
Better Counsel comes overnight.
The worst superstition is to consider our own tolerable.
The Freudians describe the conscious as a small lit area, all white, and the unconscious as a great dark marsh full of monsters. In their view, the monsters reach up, grab you by the ankles, and try to drag you down.
Loneliness, she thought, was craving for other people's company. But she did not know that loneliness can be an unnoticed cramping of the spirit for lack of companionship.