It Wouldn't Make For Sanity Would It,

The Peace Of Manderley. The Quietude And The Grace. Whoever Lived Within Its Walls, Whatever Trouble There Was And Strife, However Much Uneasiness And Pain, No Matter What Tears Were Shed, What Sorrows Borne, The Peace Of Manderley Could Not Be Broken Or The Loveliness Destroyed.

Why, He Wondered, Should He Remember Her Suddenly, On Such A Day, Watching The Rain Falling On The Apple Trees?

The Trouble Is, Walking In Venice Becomes Compulsive Once You Start. Just Over The Next Bridge, You Say, And Then The Next One Beckons.

How Simple Life Becomes When Things Like Mirrors Are Forgotten.

Writing Every Book Is Like A Purge; At The End Of It One Is Empty ... Like A Dry Shell On The Beach, Waiting For The Tide To Come In Again.