Today I will go to wait for her again, because I cannot help it, because my whole being seems now to be bound up in the being of one so different from myself and yet so exquisitely familiar that I can scarely understand what has happened.

...History it seemed could be something entirely different a splash of blood whose agony didn't fade overnight or over centuries.

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.

It was good to walk into a library again; it smelled like home.

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

I keep telling myself I should try very hard to write a novel of about 210 pages... I don't seem to be capable of it, but I keep hoping it will happen.

I wasn't brought up to be dazzled by money or fame.