I Remember The Feeling. Whenever My Father

Why Did Death Make Life Taste So Much Sweeter? Why Could The Heart Love Only What It Could Also Lose?

You Know, It's A Funny Thing About Writers. Most People Don't Stop To Think Of Books Being Written By People Much Like Themselves. They Think That Writers Are All Dead Long Ago--they Don't Expect To Meet Them In The Street Or Out Shopping. They Know Their Stories But Not Their Names, And Certainly Not Their Faces. And Most Writers Like It That Way.

Stories Never Really End...even If The Books Like To Pretend They Do. Stories Always Go On. They Don't End On The Last Page, Any More Than They Begin On The First Page.

Nothing Is More Frightening Than A Fear You Cannot Name.

He Longed For The Deep As She Longed For The Night Sky And For White Lilies Floating On Water -- Although She Still Tried To Convince Herself That Love Alone Could Feed Her Soul.