At a certain point my novels set. They set just as hard as that jam jar. And then I know they are finished.
Truth is so impossible. Something has to be done for it.
I never know why self-sacrifice is noble. Why is it better to sacrifice oneself than someone else?
If I were not a child with my parents, they would be more unloving toward me.
We none of us talk to people as we do behind their backs.
What concerns anyone so much as the time he has to live?