I think perhaps the greatest burden lies in caring for those we cannot help.” “Not in having no one for whom to care?” Fraser paused before answering; he might have been weighing the position of the pieces on the table. “That is emptiness,” he said at last, softly. “But no great burden
It’s not what’s happened or what’s about to happen; what’s important is the sense of emotional uncertainty between the characters and the delicacy of the mutual trust being established.
The shadows of the tombstones in the graveyard stretched out long and violet, and the sound of the flies buzzed in my ears, louder than the ringing of the shots that still came-were coming closer-to the frail barrier of the dead.
One of my mother’s friends was an artist. He showed me a few things – though warning me that to become an artist was the only certain way to starve.
It’s a rare plant,
a well-expressed opinion is usually better than a badly expressed fact,
writing novels was a cannibal’s art, in which one often mixed small portions of one’s friends and one’s enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction.
That lovely cool face told him nothing.
Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger.