Love flourishes in expectation. Expectation strolls through the spacious fields of Time towards Opportunity.

I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and clear as it had been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp and misty. Heavy clouds moved from the north and were invading the top of the mountain, covering it with a light brume. It seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was difficult to distinguish the mists that rose from below and those that come down from above. It was becoming hard to discern the bulk of the more distant buildings.

The real hero is always a hero by mistake.

I have always been fascinated by paranoid people imagining conspiracies. I am fascinated by this in a critical way.

To play the trumpet, you must train your lips for a long time. When I was twelve or thirteen I was a good player, but I lost the skill and now I play very badly. I do it every day even so. The reason is that I want to return to my childhood. For me, the trumpet is evidence of the sort of young man I was.

It is a myth of publishers that people want to read easy things.

Nothing is more fleeting than external form, which withers and alters like the flowers of the field at the appearance of autumn.