You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

He did not care for the lying at first. He hated it. Then later he had come to like it. It was part of being an insider but it was a very corrupting business.

Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now.

Any man's life, told truly, is a novel.

Later he had seen the things that he could never think of and later still he had seen much worse.

No; that doesn't interest me.' 'That's because you never read a book about it.