We must be what we are, or we become our enemies.

As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.

She had been a solitary child, and then solitary as a woman, drawn into an orbit of her own that took her away from others, even those who would be her friends.

In this world, where we find ourselves, we need compassion more than anything, I think, or we are all alone.

One man sees a riselka: his life forks there. Two men see a riselka: one of them shall die. Three men see a riselka: one is blessed, one forks, one shall die.

She was owner and captive, both, of a bitterly divided heart.

Irritation for some men was their response to strain.