Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that's sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair.

How does one craft happiness out of something as important, as complicated, as unrepeatable and as easily damaged as life?

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.

More than this, I believe that the only lastingly important form of writing is writing for children. It is writing that is carried in the reader's heart for a lifetime; it is writing that speaks to the future.

A small town has as many eyes as a fly

I want my life to be mystifying," she declared, although she didn't know what she meant.

Love is like moonlight or thunder, or rain on a tin roof in the middle of the night; it is one of those things in life that is truly worth knowing.