The greenest of pastures are right here on earth.

Life, Rose well knew, could throw some hard punches at you, but nothing hurt as much as losing a child, or seeing one of your children hurt and suffering. Becoming a parent changed you forever,...

When you can write music that endures, bravo. Until then, keep quiet and study the work of those who can.

Because just for a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For just a few seconds, I’m not alone.

History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.

The more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.

As I nodded and smiled and umm-hmm’d and oh, my’d my way down the drive, I wondered if boys had any sort of magazine that told them how to attract women and, if so, did...

Because beautiful things never last. Not roses nor snow… And not fireworks, either

You should spend more time reading the Good Book and less reading all those novels. What are you going to tell the Lord on Judgement Day when He asks you why you didn’t read your...

It goes on, this world, stupid and brutal.But I do not.I do not.

Most of the mess that is called history comes about because kings and presidents cannot be satisfied with a nice chicken and a good loaf of bread.

French Louis Seymour of the West Canada Creek, who knew how to survive all alone in a treacherous wilderness, and Mr. Alfred G. Vanderbilt of New York City and Raquette Lake, who was richer than...

I’m wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it’s stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.

I have done this—made the sad prince laugh. Made his grieving parents smile. None but me. Think you only kings have power? Stand on a stage and hold the hearts of men in your hands....

And I knew in my bones that Emily Dickinson wouldn’t have written even one poem if she’d had two howling babies, a husband bent on jamming another one into her, a house to run, a...

She’s got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

History is fiction.

What I saw next stopped me dead in my tracks. Books. Not just one or two dozen, but hundreds of them. In crates. In piles on the floor. In bookcases that stretched from floor to...

You can’t argue with the dead, no matter what you say, they always have the last word.

Think you only kings have power? Stand on a stage and hold the hearts of men in your hands. Make them laugh with a gesture, cry with a word. Make them love you. And you...

I don’t know what I was hoping for. Some small praise, I guess. A bit of encouragement. I didn’t get it. Miss Parrish took me aside one day after school let out. She said she’d...

Beautiful people don’t need coats. They’ve got their auras to keep them warm.

I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I’m lost in the music. Until I am the music–notes and chords, the melody and harmony....

Becuse God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.

For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

Had you but seen it, I promise you, your high-minded principles would have melted like candle wax. Never would you have wished such beauty away.

And Robespierre, the Incorruptible, who loved us so much he cut off our heads so we would not be troubled by too many thoughts.

Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get–a cold sick feeling, deep down inside–when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don’t want it to, but...

Only the hopeless love God.

And then I remember this morning and I wonder if it really happened or if I dreamed it. It was nice. And weird. And tender. I’m not used to tender. It’s a fossil, that word....

He’s wearing boots, a kilt, and a long-sleeve tee. No coat, even though it’s December. Beautiful people don’t need coats. They’ve got their auras to keep them warm.

Happiness was useless to me. It was heartache that filled my purse. What happy man has need of Shakespeare?

Ambition and poverty are powerful motivators…

God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.

Namaste. It was a Nepalese greeting. It meant: The light within me bows to the light within you.

I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

They sat quietly together for a few minutes, Joe holding Fiona’s hand, Fiona sniffling. No flowery words, no platitudes passed between them. Joe would have done anything to ease her suffering, but he knew nothing...

Well, it seems to me that there are books that tell stories, and then there are books that tell truths… The first kind, they show you life like you want it to be. With villains...

It has an L on it. L for love. See? It’s the key to the universe, Dad. You said you were looking for it. You told Mom you were. I found it for you so...

I don’t like hope very much. In fact, I hate it. It’s the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard. It’s bad news. The worst. It’s sharp sticks and cherry...

On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and...

I could almost hear the characters inside, murmuring and jostling, impatient for me to open the cover and let them out.

I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to...

DNA tells you all the secrets of life,’ he used to say. Except for one—how to live it.

Together in our house, in the firelight, we are the world made small.

Hope is the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard.

She smells of her cooking and the perfume Eau d’Hadrien. My mother wore it, too. She used to cook, like Lili. Our house smelled of garlic and thyme instead of sadness.

It’s a good thing you and your pills weren’t around a few hundred years ago or there never would have been a Vermeer or a Caravaggio. You’d have drugged “Girl with a Pearl Earring” and...

Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.

I think your vision gets better as you get older.