You Can't Find Peace By Avoiding Life.

What A Thrill, What A Shock, To Be Alive On A Morning In June, Prosperous, Almost Scandalously Privileged, With A Simple Errand To Run.

That Summer When She Was Eighteen, It Seemed Anything Could Happen, Anything At All.

Language In Fiction Is Made Up Of Equal Parts Meaning And Music. The Sentences Should Have Rhythm And Cadence, They Should Engage And Delight The Inner Ear.

The Vestibule Door Opens Onto A June Morning So Fine And Scrubbed Classira Pauses At The Threshold As She Would At The Edge Of A Pool, Watching The Turquoise Water Lapping At The Tiles, The Liquid Nets Of Sun Wavering In The Blue Depths. As If Standing At The Edge Of A Pool She Delays For A Moment The Plunge, The Quick Membrane Of Chill, The Plain Shock Of Immersion.

Dear Leonard. To Look Life In The Face. Always To Look Life In The Face And To Know It For What It Is. At Last To Know It. To Love It For What It Is, And Then, To Put It Away. Leonard. Always The Years Between Us. Always The Years. Always The Love. Always The Hours.