Because I actively enjoy sleeping, dreams, the unexplainable dialogues that take place in my head as I am drifting off, all that, I tell myself that lying down to an afternoon nap that goes on and on through eternity is not something to be concerned about. What spoils this pleasant fancy is the recollection that when people are dead they don't read books. This I find unbearable.

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

His sadness was of the kind that is patient and without hope.

Happiness is the light on the water. The water is cold and dark and deep.

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.

The reason life is so strange is that so often people have no choice.

It was lovely when you found students who responded to things you were enthusiastic about.