Love, even of the most ardent and soul-destroying kind, is never caught by the lens of the camera.

Who knows what oversensitive is, considering all there is to be sensitive to.

What we refer to confidently as memory is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling.

If you turn the imagination loose like a hunting dog, it will often return with the bird in its mouth.

Reading is rapture (or if it isn't, I put the book down meaning to go on with it later, and escape out the side door).

Sometimes she goes out to work as a practical nurse, and comes home and sits by the kitchen table soaking her feet in a pan of hot water and Epsom salts. When she gets into bed and the springs creak under her weight, she groans with the pleasure of lying stretched out on an object that understands her so well.

Satin and lace and brown velvet and the faint odor of violets. That was all which was left to him of his love.