I still maintain that an ordinary human being has the right to be horrified by a mangled body seen on an afternoon walk.

He said that in a way being loved is like being told you never have to die.

There are no beginnings, not even to stories. There are only places where you make an entrance into someone else's life and either stay or turn and go away.

... too much brooding, not enough doing.

They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.

Think of any great man or woman. How can you separate them from the years in which they lived? You can't. Their greatness lies in their response to that moment.

Complaints about reality are immature.