In Families, There Are No Crimes Beyond

I've Always Believed That Dreams Were Both The Love Letters And The Hate Mail Of The Subconscious.

Few Things Linger Longer Or Become More Indwelling Than That Feeling Of Both Completion And Emptiness When A Great Book Ends. That The Book Accompanies The Reader Forever From That Day Forward Is Part Of Literature's Profligate Generosity.

But No One Walks Out Of His Family Without Reprisals: A Family Is Too Disciplined An Army To Offer Compassion To Its Deserters.

But Even Her Demons She Invested With Inordinate Beauty, Consecrated Them With The Dignity Of Her Attention.

The Fruit Tasted Foreign But Indigenous, Like Sunlight A Tree Had Changed Through Patience.