Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.

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

Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.

I'd pretty much given up hope of being published, so I just wrote the book I wanted to read.

Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.

There’s something about hospital walls; though only made of bricks and plaster, when you’re inside them the noise, the reality of the teeming city beyond, disappears; it’s just outside the door, but it might as well be a magical land far, far away.

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