My fingers positively itched to drift at length along their spines, to arrive at one whose lure I could not pass, to pluck it down, to inch it open, then to close my eyes and inhale the soul-sparking scent of old and literate dust.

I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.

People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.

Nighttime is different. Things are otherwise when the world is black. Insecurities and hurts, anxieties and fears grow teeth at night. p493

... for home is a magnet that lures back even its most abstracted children.

He had the vague sense of standing on a threshold, the crossing of which would change everything.

A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.