If truth is not acceptable, it becomes the imagination of others.

She had begun to read in the beginning as a protection from the frightening and unpleasant things. She continued because, apart from the story, literature brought with it a kind of gentility for which she craved.

To understand the stars would spoil their appearance.

She would have liked to sit upon a rock and listen to words, not of any man, but detached, mysterious, poetic words that she alone would interpret through some sense inherited from sleep.

Because he had nothing to hide, he did perhaps appear to have forfeited a little of his strength. But that is the irony of honesty.

If truth is not acceptable, it becomes the imagination of others.

Life is full of alternatives but no choice.