That instinct for human character that is perhaps inherent in an imaginative writer.

To comfort me is like the wrong memory at the wrong place or time: if one is lonely one prefers discomfort.

Had Shakespeare listened to the news of Duncans death in a tavern or heard the knocking on his own bedroom door after he had finished the writing of Macbeth?

It is the storytellers task to elicit sympathy and a measure of understanding for those who lie outside the boundaries of State approval.

It is always of interest to know what strikes another human being as remarkable.

The world was in her heart already, like the small spot of decay in a fruit.

From childhood I had never believed in permanence, and yet I had longed for it. Always I was afraid of losing happiness. This month, next year...death was the only absolute value in my world. Lose life and one would lose nothing again forever.