Every Man With His Own Peculiar Vice.

Part Of The Beauty Of Fiction Is That We Come Alive In A Body That We Don't Own.

We Seldom Know What We're Hearing When We Hear Something For The First Time, But One Thing Is Certain: We Hear It As We Will Never Hear It Again. We Return To The Moment To Experience It, I Suppose, But We Can Never Really Find It, Only Its Memory, The Faintest Imprint Of What Really Was, What It Meant.

We Shape Ourselves By Our Imaginative Reach.

There Are Moments We Return To, Now And Always. Family Is Like Water - It Has A Memory Of What It Once Filled, Always Trying To Get Back To The Original Stream.

Every Man With His Own Peculiar Vice. His Will Hardly Rock Heaven Or Hell.