And blessed are they who have learned the rhythms of the invisible clock whose hours and minutes are immense and soundless. The great clock of the seasons and the years, and the small clock of the intuition, whose timing is guided by the heart.

I cannot believe this is the end. Nor can I believe that death is more than the blindness of those living. And if this is only the consolation of a heart in its necessity, or that easy faith born of despair, it does not matter, since it gives us courage somehow to face the mornings. Which is as much as the heart can ask at times.

things that have cost more than they're worth leave a bitter taste. A taste of salt and sweat.

The dead elm leaves hung like folded bats.

in mad people fear goes on constantly, night and day, wearing one ditch in the mind that all thoughts must travel in.

... love and fear increase together with a precision almost mathematical: the greater the love is then the greater the fear is.

What is sanity, after all, except the control of madness?