Surely heaven must have something of the color and shape of whatever village or hill or cottage of which the believer says, This is my own.
Don't be 'a writer'. Be writing.
She loved him not only in spite of but because he himself was incapable of love.
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
He is thinking quietly: I should not have got out of the habit of prayer.
Memory believes before knowing remembers. [Light in August]