Something that is loved is never lost.
If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it.
There is really nothing more to say-except why. But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how.
Not knowing it was hard; knowing it was harder.
It was a fine cry – loud and long – but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.
What’s the world for you if you can’t make it up the way you want it?
She learned the intricacy of loneliness: the horror of color, the roar of soundlessness and the menace of familiar objects lying still.
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For me the restoration of order. It may discuss all sort of terrible things, but there must be satisfaction at the end. A little bit of hunger, but also satisfaction.
The presence of evil was something to be first recognized, then dealt with, survived, outwitted, triumphed over.
You don’t have to love me but you damn well have to respect me.
I wrote my first novel because I wanted to read it.
If I knowed more people. I would of loved ‘em all. If I’d a knowed more, I would a loved more.
Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined.
Now he knew why he loved her so. Without ever leaving the ground, she could fly. ‘There must be another one like you,’ he whispered to her. ‘There’s got to be at least one more woman like you.
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