It is funny, but it strikes me that a person without anecdotes that they nurse while they live, and that survive them, are more likely to be utterly lost not only to history but the family following them. Of course this is the fate of most souls, reducing entire lives, no matter how vivid and wonderful, to those sad black names on withering family trees, with half a date dangling after and a question mark.

For I did not want him to see, or to question me, for here contains already secrets, and my secrets are my fortune and my sanity.

It is always worth itemising happiness, there is so much of the other thing in a life, you had better put down the markers for happiness while you can.

What is the sound of an eighty-nine-year-old heart breaking?

I rose and moved towards him. You would have done the same yourself. It is an ancient matter. Something propels you towards sudden grief, or perhaps also sometimes repels. You move away. I moved towards it, I couldn't help it.

I knew immediately something was terribly wrong, but you can know that and not allow the thought in your head, at the front of your head. It dances around at the back, where it can't be controlled. But the front of the head is where the pain begins.

There is seldom a difficulty with religion where there is friendship.