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

What can it be about low temperatures that sharpens the edges of objects?

Most of humanity gets by without reading novels or poetry, and no one would deny the richness of their thoughts.

By measuring individual human worth, the novelist reveals the full enormity of the State

When he thought of her, it rather amazed him, that he had let that girl with her violin go. Now, of course, he saw that her self-effacing proposal was quite irrelevant. All she had needed was the certainty of his love, and his reassurance that there was no hurry when a lifetime lay ahead of them. Love and patience- if only he had had them both at once- would surely have seen them both through.

But to do its noticing and judging, poetry balances itself on the pinprick of the moment. Slowing down, stopping yourself completely, to read and understand a poem is like trying to acquire an old-fashioned skill.

How can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God?