When One Is Writing A Novel In

If Only There Could Be An Invention That Bottled Up A Memory, Like Scent. And It Never Faded, And It Never Got Stale. And Then, When One Wanted It, The Bottle Could Be Uncorked, And It Would Be Like Living The Moment All Over Again.

Here Was A Silence Between Them For A Moment, And She Wondered If All Women, When In Love, Were Torn Between Two Impulses, A Longing To Throw Modesty And Reserve To The Winds And Confess Everything, And An Equal Determination To Conceal The Love Forever, To Be Cool, Aloof, Utterly Detached, To Die Rather Than Admit A Thing So Personal, So Intimate.

Boredom Is A Pleasing Antidote For Fear

If There’s One Thing That Makes A Man Sick, It’s To Have His Ale Poured Out Of An Ugly Hand.

He Lacked Tenderness; He Was Rude; And He Had More Than A Streak Of Cruelty In Him; He Was A Thief And A Liar. He Stood For Everything She Feared And Hated And Despised; But She Knew She Could Love Him... This Was No Choice Made With The Mind.