The sky is no bigger than the mouth of the well.
So here we are, talking about Roman unicycles and alien sandwiches and my sister’s Italian misfortunes, while hanging in between us is: MY EPIC FAILURE TO CARPE. What’s wrong with me?
She moved like a poem and smiled like a sphinx.
Bitter, bitter, this desolation of angels.
Happiness. It was the place where passion, with all its dazzle and drumbeat, met something softer: homecoming and safety and pure sunbeam comfort. It was all those things, intertwined with the heat and the thrill, and it was as bright within her as a swallowed star.
She knocked and waited, because when the door was opened from within, it had the potential to lead someplace quite different.
Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there's no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.
I need to capture my sprite with trembling hands. Except I could crush her. Wonder how many small things of beauty - flowers, seashells, dragonflies - have met such a demise. Wonder how much fragile love has collapsed beneath the weight of confession.
I am not ashamed to say that I am the son of a washerwoman.
The difference between a novelist and someone who tinkers around with writing is this: novelists finish their books.
I've been a long time coming, and I'll be a long time gone. You've got your whole life to do something, and that's not very long.