Obviously, A Writer Can't Know Everything About

I Was At A Loss Suddenly; But Conscious All The While Of How Armand Listened; That He Listened In The Way That We Dream Of Others Listening, His Face Seeming To Reflect On Every Thing Said. He Did Not Start Forward To Seize On My Slightest Pause, To Assert An Understanding Of Something Before The Thought Was Finished, Or To Argue With A Swift, Irresistible Impulse -- The Things Which Often Make Dialogue Impossible. And After A Long Interval He Said, 'i Want You. I Want You More Than Anything In The World.

I Broke With My Religion In College.

As If It Were Our Very Birthright, Which We Could Not Come To Grasp The Meaning Of Until This Time Of Middle Life When We Looked On Only As Many Years Ahead As Already Lay Behind Us.

What I Have Always Wanted More Than Revenge Is To Bring The Other Person To Recognition Of The Pain They Caused, So They Essentially Say, "i Will Never Do That Again."

No Matter How Long We Exist, We Have Our Memories. Points In Time Which Time Itself Cannot Erase. Suffering May Distort My Backward Glances, But Even To Suffering, Some Memories Will Yield Nothing Of Their Beauty Or Their Splendor. Rather They Remain As Hard As Gems.