The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marveled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.

Better to accept the wretched truth than struggle, twisting to make a wish a reality.

Now here's a good one: you're lying on your deathbed. You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?

Or - perhaps - I should just worry about my own behavior and let others be who they are.

Things are strongest where they're broken.

I've seen enough successful writers who no longer seem to care when they are recognized with an award, and I think that's just tragic.

Myrna could spend happy hours browsing bookcases. She felt if she could just get a good look at a person’s bookcase and their grocery cart, she’d pretty much know who they were.