...we can only add to the world, where we believe it ends, more parts similar to those we already know (an expanse made again and always of water and land, stars and skies).

We stopped to browse in the cases, and now that William - with his new glasses on his nose - could linger and read the books, at every title he discovered he let out exclamations of happiness, either because he knew the work, or because he had been seeking it for a long time, or finally because he had never heard it mentioned and was highly excited and titillated. In short, for him every book was like a fabulous animal that he was meeting in a strange land.

There is no great sport in having bullets flying about one in every direction, but I find they have less horror when among them than when in anticipation.

And what would we be, we sinful creatures, without fear, perhaps the most foresighted, the most loving of the divine gifts?

We are always remaking history. Our memory is always an interpretive reconstruction of the past, so is perspective.

It is sometimes hard to grasp the difference between identifying with one's own roots, understanding people with other roots, and judging what is good or bad.

To survive, you must tell stories.