The ways in which a book, once read, stays (and changes) in the reader's mind are unpredictable.

A pier is a disappointed bridge; yet stare at it for long enough and you can dream it to the other side of the Channel.

Wisdom consists partly in not pretending anymore, in discarding artifice.

Why does the writing make us chase the writer? Why can't we leave well enough alone? Why aren't the books enough?

Because love is the meeting point of truth and magic. Truth, as in photography; magic, as in ballooning.

Every love story is a potential grief story.

This is what those who haven’t crossed the tropic of grief often fail to understand: the fact that someone is dead may mean that they are not alive, but doesn’t mean that they do not exist.