I've noticed Dracula was often as practical a fellow as he was a nasty one.

I've read there is no such thing as a single tear, that old poetic trope. And perhaps there isn't, since hers was simply a companion to my own.

For the first time, I had been struck by the excitement of the traveler who looks history in her subtle face.

I wondered why she craved this knowledge and found myself remembering that she was, after all, an anthropologist.

My guess is that he remembers some of me, some of us together, and the rest rolled off him like topsoil in a flash flood.

It was strange, I reflected.. that even in the weirdest circumstances, the most troubling episodes of one's life, the greatest divides from home and familiarity, there were these moments of undeniable joy.

Every writer hopes his or her book will be its own thing.