I do not need to get used to your silence. I already know it. I quite possibly love all of it.

Easy writing makes hard reading.

No well-run yacht basin in Southern waters is complete without at least two sun-burned, salt bleached-headed Esthonians who are waiting for a check from their last article. When it comes they will set sail to another yacht basin and write another saga.

You are killing me, fish, the old man thought. But you have a right to. Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing than you, brother.

The rain will stop, the night will end, the hurt will fade. Hope is never so lost that it can't be found.

There is no left and right in writing. There is only good and bad writing.

Isn't it pretty to think so.