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.

Something has happened, hasn't it? ... It's like being up close to something so large you don't even see it. Even now, I'm not sure I can. But I know it's there.

And now she was back in the world, not one she could make, but the one that had made her, and she felt herself shrinking under the early evening sky. She was weary of being outdoors, but she was not ready to go in. Was that really all there was in life, indoors or out? Wasn't there somewhere else for people to go?

Oblivion seemed the only reasonable option.

Be wary of too much calm, particularly in your mid-fifties.

Reading groups, readings, breakdowns of book sales all tell the same story: when women stop reading, the novel will be dead.

Love doesn't grow at a steady rate, but advances in surges, bolts, wild leaps, and this was one of those.