Perhaps God waits for us to be empty, so he may fill us with himself.

Sarcasm doesn't appear to work on him. If that's true, I'm in trouble: It's my normal mode of communication.

A moment comes in war when the last line must be crossed. The line that separates what you hold dear from what total war demands. If he couldn't cross that line, the battle was over, and he was lost. His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield. With a cry only he could hear, the hunter turned. And ran.

I start to unbutton his shirt. "Got to get these clothes off," I mutter. "You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say that." Smile. Lopsided. Sexy.

Good God, man, what is that smell?" He eyed with disgust the doctor's filthy cloak. "Life," answered the doctor.

There are things that are too terrible to remember, and there are things that are almost too wonderful to recall.

The doctor frowned upon drinking and often expressed wonderment at men who willingly made imbeciles of themselves.