There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more.

a certain bohemian, good-witch sort of charm

Dear Leonard. To look life in the face. Always to look life in the face and to know it for what it is. At last to know it. To love it for what it is, and then, to put it away. Leonard. Always the years between us. Always the years. Always the love. Always the hours.

Insomniacs know better than anyone how it would be to haunt a house.

Here is the world, and you live in it, and are grateful. You try to be grateful.

The lives great artists live and the books they write are two very different things.

The kiss was innocent--innocent enough--but it was also full of something not unlike what Virginia wants from London, from life; it was full of a love complex and ravenous, ancient, neither this nor that. It will serve as this afternoon's manifestation of the central mystery itself, the elusive brightness that shines from the edges of certain dreams; the brightness which, when we awaken, is already fading from our minds, and which we rise in the hope of finding, perhaps today, this new day in which anything might happen, anything at all.