It was such a sweet, sad song with such sweet, sad lyrics. Old-fashioned a little, but also timeless.

A place isn't a place until it has a bookstore.

Speak up,' says Myrna who has a fuzzy white caterpillar of a moustache. 'My hearing's not so good.' 'I WAS SHOT IN THE HEAD.' Liz turns to Thandi. 'I thought you said you didn't remember how you got the hole in your head.' Thandi apologizes. 'I just remembered.' 'Shot in the head!' Florence-scratchy-voice says. 'Oy, that's rough.' 'Aw, it's nothing special. Happens pretty regularly where I'm from,' Thandi says. 'WHAT?' asks Myrna with the moustache. 'Say it toward my left ear, that's the good one.' 'I SAID, "IT'S NOTHING SPECIAL,"' Thandi yells/

The things we respond to at twenty are not necessarily the same things we will respond to at forty and vice versa. This is true in books and also in life

Why do two people fall in love? It's a mystery.

We aren't the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.

A life isn't measured in hours and minutes. It's the quality, not the length.