In each man's heart there lies a hole. A dark abyss of need, the filling of which takes precedence over all else.

It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.

It didn't occur to him that she might have chosen to remain this way. That where he saw reserve and loneliness, Cassandra saw self-preservation and the knowledge that it was safer when one had less to lose.

Wars make history seem deceptively simple. They provide clear turning points, easy distinctions.: before and after, winner and loser, right and wrong. True history, the past, is not like that. It isn't flat or linear. It has no outline. It is slippery, like liquid; infinite and unknowable, like space. And it is changeable: just when you think you see a pattern, perspective shifts, an alternate version is proffered, a long-forgotten memory resurfaces.

A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she will find her courage wanting.

Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.

All true readers have a book, a moment when real life is never going to be able to compete with fiction again.