His entire life was becoming a race against the natural -- and he was winning.

Time's passage through the memory is like molten glass that can be opaque or crystallize at any given moment at will: a thousand days are melted into one conversation, one glance, one hurt, and one hurt can be shattered and sprinkled over a thousand.

One should be able to return to the first sentence of a novel and find the resonances of the entire work.

The last time you're doing something -- knowing you're doing it for the last -- makes it even more alive than the first.

Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.