With twice his wits, she had to see things through his eyes -- one of the tragedies of married life.

Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in it's place?

But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.

It doesn't have to be the truth, just your vision of it, written down.

To survive, each sentence must have, at its heart, a little spark of fire, and this, whatever the risk, the novelist must pluck with his own hands from the blaze.

And again she felt alone in the presence of her old antagonist, life.

Who would not spout the family teapot in order to talk with Keats for an hour about poetry, or with Jane Austen about the art of fiction?