We are born knowing death.

. . . all that she had had, and all that she had missed, were lost together, and were twice lost in this landslide of remembered losses.

I specialize in what the French call la petite histoire. I am interested in the individual thumbprint.

You are right, none of us live enough, and sometimes I think it is because we mistake hurrah and hullabaloo for experience, we get a sock in the eye and think it is a broken heart.

The real sin against life is to abuse and destroy beauty, even one's own even more, one's own, for that has been put in our care and we are responsible for its well-being.

words can never get at the truth.

I love to praise what I love, and I won't for a minute believe that love is blind -- indeed, it gives clearness without sharpness, and surely that is the best light in which to look at anything.