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.

...what will we someday do, I always wonder, without the pleasures of turning through books and stumbling on things we never meant to find?

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

When you handle books all day long, every new one is a friend and a temptation.

These atheist cultures were certainly diligent in preserving the relics of their saints.

The problem is simply finding the right person. Ask Plato. Just make sure she finishes your thoughts and you finish hers. That's all you need.

It touched me to be trusted with something terrible.