There is a time, when passing through a light, that you walk in your own shadow.

Through poverty, godhunger, the family debacle, I kept a sense of worth. I could limn and paint like no-one else in this human-wounded land: I was worth the while of living. Now my skill is dead. I should be.

The smarter you are, the more you know, the less reason you have to trust or love or confide.

I have faced Death. I have been caught in the wild weed tangles of Her hair, seen the gleam of her jade eyes. I will go when it is time - no choice! - but now I want life.

You want to know about anybody? See what books they read, and how they've been read.

The company you keep at death is, of all things, most dependent on chance.

But hands are sacred things. Touch is personal, fingers of love, feelers of blind eyes, tongues of those who cannot talk.