Times like this, with the wind moving the grass and curling around her like a huge cool hand, Tess felt the world as a second presence, as another person, as if the wind and the grass had voices of their own and she could hear them talking.

An honest book is almost as good as a friend.

Is there any evidence to the contrary? I don't need certainty in order to act on a well-founded suspicion.

You must not make the mistake of thinking that because nothing lasts, nothing matters.

And death? I don't fear death. I dread the absence of it.

The world is what it is and won't be bargained with.

We're as ephemeral as raindrops. We all fall, and we all land somewhere.