An idyllic childhood is probably illusion.

Writing is an antisocial act.

Silence is a way of saying: we do not have to entertain each other; we are okay as we are.

The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.

I cleared my throat - it isn't frogs you get in your throat; it's memories.

And so it continued all day, wynde after wynde, From a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. Now, you really must join me. I've some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petit fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.

An idyllic childhood is probably illusion.