Wasn't writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?

I apologize for being obvious, but every time I watch the curtain come down on even a halfway decent production of a Shakespeare play I feel a little sorrowful that I'll never know the man, or any man of such warm intelligence.

Above all, she wanted to look as though she had not given the matter a moment's thought, and that would take time.

A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended.

What was it with men, that they found elementary logic so difficult?

We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.

She loved him, though not at this particular moment.