A story can always break into pieces while it sits inside a book on a shelf; and, decades after we have read it even twenty times, it can open us up, by cut or caress, to a new truth.
Truth, Reading, Book
What cracks had he left in their hearts? Did they love less now and settle for less in return, as they held onto parts of themselves they did not want to give and lose again? Or - and he wished this - did they love more fully because they had survived pain, so no longer feared it?
Love, Hope, Pain
What is art if not a concentrated and impassioned effort to make something with the little we have, the little we see?
Passion, Art
1888