Both looked back then on the wild revelry...and they lamented that it had cost them so much of their lives to find the paradise of shared solitude.

Justice limps along, but gets there all the same.

and it was always without pretensions of loving or being loved although always in the hope of finding something that resembled love but without the problems of love.

She would say, "Someone should invent something to do with things you cannot use anymore but that you still cannot throw out.

I don't know who said that novelists read the novels of others only to figure out how they are written. I believe it's true. We aren't satisfied with the secrets exposed on the surface of the page: we turn the book around to find the seams.

"Things have a life of their own," the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. "It's simply a matter of waking up their souls."

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry.