I wondered if she was trying to convey something to me, something she could not put into words - something prior to words that she could not grasp within herself and which therefore had no hope of ever turning into words.

It’s pretty thin, the wall separating healthy confidence and unhealthy Pride.

After all this, I won't start to hate you.

Such wounds to the heart will probably never heal. But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.

I'll never see them again. I know that. And they know that. And knowing this, we say farewell.

Writers have to keep on writing if they want to mature, like caterpillars endlessly chewing on leaves.

You like to write. It's the single most important quality for someone who wants to be a writer. But not in itself enough.