Maybe each human being lives in a unique world, a private world, a world different from those inhabited and experienced by all other humans.

But the actual touch of her lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away. That one touch of her hand.

What they do not comprehend is man's helplessness. I am weak, small, of no consequence to the universe. It does not notice me; I live on unseen. But why is that bad? Isn't it that way? Whom the gods notice they destroy. Be small... and you will escape the jealousy of the great.

All responsible writers, to some degree, have become involuntary criers of doom, because doom is in the wind

She makes life over, he realized. She controls life, whereas I just sit on my can and let it happen to me.

Everything in life is just for a while.

It's not what happened but how it is told.