Leaves hung in the stillness like hands of the newly dead.
Reading Mission to Paris is like sipping a fine Chateau Margaux: Sublime!
Whenever I finish a book, I start with a blank slate and never have ideas lined up.
. . . why some men choose to fill their brief allotment of time engaging the impossible, others in the manufacture of sorrow.
The intermittent depression that had shadowed him throughout his adult life was about to envelop him once again.
Beneath the stars the lake lay dark and sombre," Stead wrote, "but on its shores gleamed and glowed in golden radiance the ivory city, beautiful as a poet's dream, silent as a city of the dead.