Moreover, a book is not made of sentences laid end to end, but of sentences built, if an image helps, into arcades or domes.

The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.

Life would split apart without letters.

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

Does Nature supplement what man advanced? Or does she complete what he began?

Arrange whatever pieces come your way.

I want to write a novel about Silence," he said; “the things people don’t say.