Their love was something which coloured the air between them like sunlight.

The battle of good and evil reduced to a fat woman standing in front of a chocolate shop, saying, Will I? Won’t I? in pitiful indecision.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.

Places do not lose their identity, however far one travels. It is the heart that begins to erode over time. The face in the hotel mirror seems blurred some mornings, as if by too many casual looks. By ten the sheets will be laundered, the carpet swept. The names on the hotel registers change as we pass. We leave no trace as we pass on. Ghostlike, we cast no shadow.

I have a tendency to pick up my own challenges. The more difficult something it is, the more I want to try it.

Library-denigrators, pay heed:suggesting that the Internet is a viable substitute for libraries is like saying porn could replace your wife.