He Breathed Once More, Holding The Air

What Strange Places Our Lives Can Carry Us To, What Dark Passages.

If You Are Writing Any Book About The End Of The World, What You Are Really Writing About Is What's Worth Saving About It.

It Was Possible, He Understood, For A Person's Life To Become Just A Long Series Of Mistakes, And That The End, When It Came, Was Just One More Mistake In A Chain Of Bad Choices. The Thing Was, Most Of These Mistakes Were Actually Borrowed From Other People. You Took Their Bad Ideas, And For Whatever Reason, Made Them Your Own.

So, Whenever I'm Writing, I'm Writing In The Presence Of All The Other Books I've Read And I Think We All Are.

A Thousand Recollected Lives Were Passing Through Her, A Thousand Stories - Of Love And Work, Of Parents And Children, Of Duty And Joy And Grief. Beds Slept In And Meals Eaten, And The Bliss And Pain Of The Body, And A View Of Summer Leaves From A Window On A Morning It Had Rained; The Nights Of Loneliness And The Nights Of Love, The Soul In It's Body Keeping Always Longing To Be Known.