Todos los niños mitifican su nacimiento. Es un rasgo universal. ¿Quieres conocer a alguien? ¿Su corazón, su mente, su alma? Pídele que te hable de cuando nació. Lo que te cuente no será la verdad: ser...
Time was of the essence. For at eight o'clock the world came to an end. It was reading time. The hours between eight in the evening and one or two in the morning have always been my magic hours. Again...
This was one of the images of his lifetime. He simply exposed his retina and let love burn her flickering, shimmering, absorbed face onto his soul.
There’s a great many things hard to fathom in darkness that set themselves straight in the light of day.
There was nothing to see; the mist that hung in the air made everything invisible that was more than a short distance away.
There was no magic behind the silence - it was the soft-furnishings that did it. Overstuffed sofas were piled with velvet cushions; there were upholstered footstools, chaise longues, and armchairs; ta...
There are times when the human face and body can express the yearning of the heart so accurately that you can, as they say, read them like a book. Do not abandon me.
The beginning, perhaps. The girl without the mother. But after that . . . I wish someone could tell me what it means. I wish there was someone who could just tell me the truth.
Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words.
I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book.
I shall start at the beginning. Though of course, the beginning is never where you think it is.
I have written a number of short biographical studies of insignificant personages from literary history. My interest has always been in writing biographies of the also-rans: people who lived in the sh...
I hardly suppose Wagner lost sleep worrying whether he’d hurt someone’s feelings. But then he was a genius.
Her hair was a dirty color that was too dark to be blond, her chin was big and her eyes were small.
For nearly sixty years I have eavesdropped with impunity on the lives of people who do not exist.
For me to see is to read. It has always been that way.
Don’t you think one can tell the truth much better with a story?
But only when it was too late did they realize the price they must pay for escaping their destiny. Every Happy Ever After was tainted. Fate, at first so amenable, so reasonable, so open to negotiation...
At last, after all the tale telling and all the yarn spinning, after the smoke screens and the trick mirrors and the double bluffs, I knew.
And there is more: what we see on a map is only the half of it. A river no more begins at its source than a story begins with the first page. Take Trewsbury Mead, for instance. That photograph, do you...