Part Of The Beauty Of Fiction Is

The Thing About Love Is That We Come Alive In Bodies Not Our Own.

The Luxury Of Age Was The Giving Up Of Vanity.

Memory Has A Heavy Backspin, Yet It’s Still Impossible To Land Exactly Where We Took Off.

The War Was About Vanity, He Said. It Was About Old Men Who Couldn't Look In The Mirror Anymore And So They Sent The Young Out To Die. Was Was A Get-together Of The Vain. They Wanted It Simple--hate Your Enemy, Know Nothing Of Him.

We Have To Listen To Other People's Stories. That's The Thing. And That's The Only Way That We Eventually Get To Know Ourselves.