When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.

She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.

When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist in his face." (31.26)

Something I'd like to be perfect at? ... Loving you,' I said. The words climbed from my mouth. 'I'd want to be perfect at loving you.

Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.

I certainly wasn't born with creative writing. Maybe there's a certain amount of learning and then it's up to the person. I think in the end it's your favourite books that are the best teachers. That's the way I've learned the most, by far.

I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.