So many (too many) books are published every year, and it seems everyone is writing a book. Perhaps we should all be reading more and writing less!

My father was often impatient during March, waiting for winter to end, the cold to ease, the sun to reappear. March was an unpredictable month, when it was never clear what might happen. Warm days raised hopes until ice and grey skies shut over the town again.

I didn't move. I've learned from years of experience that dogs and falcons and ladies come back to you if you stay where you are.

I have spent my life waiting for something to happen,’ she said. ‘And I have come to understand that nothing will. Or it already has, and I blinked during that moment and it's gone. I don't know which is worse — to have missed it or to know there is nothing to miss.’ Falling Angels

You're so calm and quiet, you never say. But there are things inside you. I see them sometimes, hiding in your eyes.

I find that when I come out of the library I'm in what I call the library bliss of being totally taken away from the distractions of life.

I wanted to wear the mantle and the pearls. I wanted to know the man who painted her like that.