Unnatural death always provoked a peculiar unease, an uncomfortable realization that there were still some things that might not be susceptible to bureaucratic control.

History, which interprets the past to understand the present and confront the future is the least rewarding discipline for a dying species.

Metaphysical speculation is about as pointless as a discussion on the meaning of one's lungs. They're for breathing.

I don't want anyone to look to me, not for protection, not for happiness, not for love, not for anything.

You never forget the people who were kind to you in childhood, do you, sir?

I am fifty years old and I have never known what it is to love. I can write those words, know them to be true, but feel only the regret that a tone-deaf man must feel because he can't appreicate music, a regret less keen because it is for something never known, not for something lost.

Most of my life I have needed more time to be on my own.