Her hand touched me at the wrist. "If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn't you?" I didn't say anything.

A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle. Half my days I cannot bear to touch you. The rest of my time I feel like it doesn’t matter if I will ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it’s how much you can bear. No date. No name attached.

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

The one of the great sadnesses of any life is knowing what you know now and then remembering what you did not know then.

For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.

He will hear the rain before he feels it, a clicking on the dry grass, on the olive leaves.

So we came to understand that small and important thing, that our lives could be large with interesting strangers who would pass us without any personal involvement.