It is lucky she thinks that we don't feel all the love inside us every moment. We couldn't breathe or walk or eat. It is lucky that it just flares up every now and again then resolves itself into a manageable dormancy.

Humor was an antiseptic that cleaned the deepest of personal wounds.

Arnold did not wear braids. He could not sit long enough for his mother. "be still, be still", she would say between her teeth. But Arnold loved his body too much to remain still.

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain, which cannot forget, Falls drop by drop upon the heart, until in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

The dead are never far from us. They're in our hearts and on our minds and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.

There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.