The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?

She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.

I never know where I am going, though. That is part of what makes it so wonderful. And after all, who does?

Condemned and executioner with aren't coupled in a primitive rite.

Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.

At an early school, when I was about 5, they asked what we wanted to be when we grew up. Everyone said silly things, and I said I wanted to be an actress. So that was what I wanted to be, but what I was, of course, was a writer.

What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.