I was filled with angst in college, that I struggled with the question of my future, the meaning of my life - spoiled sheltered rich girl collides with great books and is devastated by her own banality.

The heart does not go backward. Only the mind.

It's funny; in this era of e-mail and voice mail and all those things that even I did not grow up with, a plain old paper letter takes on amazing intimacy.

He brought his great hand to rest on an early edition of Bram Stoker's novel and smiled, but said nothing. Then he moved quietly away into another section.

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.

Then you must say to her, 'Madame, I observe that your heart is broken. Allow me to repair it for you.

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.