Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?

I understood that fate could not be eluded forever; it came on leathery wings, swooping through the darkness like the bats in the orchards.

To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge

Certain things need not be said, and there__ nothing, not a whisper, prayer, not a sacrifice, not a payment of any price, that would change what__ about to happen.

Do you ever just put your arms out and just spin and spin and spin? Well, that's what love is like; everything inside of you tells you to stop before you fall, but for some reason you just keep going.

At the end of the day your ability to connect with your readers comes down to how you make them feel.