A murder was never about brawn, it began and ended in the brain and the brain could justify anything.

In winter the very ground seemed to reach up and grab the elderly, yanking them to earth as though hungry for them.

…and all the other tools that mistook information for knowledge

He had his treasure, but finally all he wanted was his family. And peace.

Joy doesn't ever leave, you know. It's always with you. And one day you'll find it again.

…struck. Once. And into that blow he put his childhood, his grief, his loss. He put his mother’s sorrow and his sister’s longing. The menorah, weighed down with that, crushed the Hermit’s skull.

That was the danger. Not that betrayals happened, not that cruel things happened, but that they could outweigh all the good. That we could forget the good and only remember the bad.

…in the library…surrounded by things far more dangerous than what roamed the school corridors. For here thoughts were housed.

Not everything buried is actually dead. For many, the past is alive.

She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. (about Clara’s mother, who had dementia)

Conscience. Imagine being pursued by your own conscience….A mountain of conscience. Throwing a lengthening shadow. Growing. Darkening.

Wherever you are, for sure, you are everywhere.

The GSEs are adequately capitalized. They are in no danger of failing.

If your head is made of wax, don't walk in the sun

Why fight for a flag when you can buy one for a nickel.

When you see paintings of some of the saints, or of Christ, they all have lights around their heads. What the painters are trying to convey is the psychic light, which is around everyone.

Every day I count wasted in which there has been no dancing.

It's easy to listen to what you are taught. But it's difficult to find what you have within yourself and master it as yor own.

It has always bothered me that I don't paint like everyone else

I always wanted to make a children's album because you have the freedom to explore so many wonderful topics and sounds.

We whine about things we have little control over; we lament what we believe ought to be changed.