Which Would Be Worse - To Live

The Ornament Of Beauty, Shakespeare Wrote, Is Suspect. And He Was Right. But Beauty Itself, Unadorned And Unaffected, Is Sacred, I Think, Worthy Of Our Awe And Our Loyalty.

The World Does Not Have Tidy Endings. The World Does Not Have Neat Connections. It Is Not Filled With Epiphanies That Work Perfectly At The Moment That You Need Them.

She Was Afraid Of All That And So Much More, But What Terrified Her Most Was Inside Of Her, An Insect Of Unnatural Intelligence Who’d Been Living In Her Brain Her Entire Life, Playing With It, Clicking Across It, Wrenching Loose Its Cables On A Whim.

Catch Me On A Good Day, I Think Half Of My Books Aren't Too Bad. Catch Me On A Bad Day, I Think I've Never Written A Good Line.

And Often The Worst Thing Wasn't The Victims--they Were Dead, After All, And Beyond Any More Pain. The Worst Thing Was Those Who Loved Them And Survived Them. Often The Walking Dead From Now On, Shell-shocked, Hearts Ruptured, Stumbling Through The Remainder Of Their Lives Without Anything Left Inside Of Them But Blood And Organs, Impervious To Pain, Having Learned Nothing Except That The Worst Things Did, In Fact, Sometimes Happen. (mystic River)