Few things are better in the world than a room full of librarians. I consider them literary heroes. The keepers and defenders of the written word.

Foolish people are never harmless. Stupidity accounts for as many crimes as anger and greed.

Aid workers, when handing out food to starving people, quickly learn that the people fighting for it at the front are the people who need it least. It's the people sitting quietly at the back, too weak to fight, who need it the most. And so too with tragedy.

A good novel is a good novel, pointe finale. And I think what I'm writing is exactly that.

But, like peace, comfort didn't come from hiding away or running away. Comfort first demanded courage.

In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them.

He tried to let her know it would be all right. Eventually. Life wouldn't always be this painful. The world wouldn't always be this brutal. Give it time, little one. Give it another chance. Come back.