My train was late that day. the day I saw you drop your notebook. Had it been on schedule we never would have met. Maybe we were never meant to.

Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.

I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you.

You believe you could not live with the pain. Such pain is not lived with. It is only endured. I am sorry.

It is likely to make us think we are not caged. We cannot feel the bars unless we push against them.

Follow your dreams Bailey. Be they Harvard or somehing else entirely. No matter what that father of yours says, or how loudly he might say it. He forgets that he was someone's dream once, himself

If she were gone I would be nothing. You should think better of yourself than to settle for that.

I mean only that I hope they find darkness or paradise without fear of it, if they can.

I suppose there will never be a lack of things to say, of stories to be told and shared.

And there are really never endings, happy or otherwise.

I have had affairs that lasted decades and others that lasted for hours. I have loved princesses and peasants. And I suppose they loved me, each in their way.

We refuse to let our knowledge, however limited, be informed by your ignorance, however vast.

Things have a terrible permanence when people die.

Can you suppose there's any harm in looking as cheerful and being as cheerful as our poor circumstances will permit?

It had to teach her to think of love as a state of grace: not the means to anything but the alpha and omega, an end it itself.

the old ploy of the powerful: never refuse when you can confuse. Distraction and delay are always better than obstruction.

Like any creative human being, I would like a bit more control so that it would be a little easier for me when the director says, 'One tear, right now,' that one tear would pop out.

There are those who suffer and grow strong; there are those who suffer and grow weak. This mystery of pain is still for me the saddest of earth's disabilities.

We have a natural right to make use of our pens as of our tongue, at our peril, risk and hazard.

The last sound on the worthless earth will be two human beings trying to launch a homemade spaceship and already quarreling about where they are going next.

Ya Allah, envelop our hearts with a shield of your light and mercy, so the pain doesn't penetrate.