But when she finally got the wings to fly she realized she had nowhere else to go to...

To survive one tragedy was to learn you cannot survive them all, and this knowledge was both a freedom and a great loss.

After all, the girl actually had faith in something, which was more than most people had in these dark times. It was wrong to destroy it.

A story is a wondrous invention.

We adapt to our sorrows, I suppose, as unpleasant as they might be. One cannot weep forever. One simply runs dry of tears.

One's child is always one's child no matter what age they might be. You worry when your child makes a noise, when he doesn't. It's a terrible kind of love. Terrible.

It was easy to imagine the beginning of time here, but also, perhaps, its end.