Ultimately, Literature Is Nothing But Carpentry. With

A Lie Is More Comfortable Than Doubt, More Useful Than Love, More Lasting Than Truth.

The Truth Is I'm Getting Old, I Said. We Already Are Old, She Said With A Sigh. What Happens Is That You Don't Feel It On The Inside, But From The Outside Everybody Can See It.

She Knew That He Loved Her Above All Else, More Than Anything In The World, But Only For His Own Sake.

For A Week, Almost Without Speaking, They Went Ahead Like Sleepwalkers Through A Universe Of Grief, Lighted Only By The Tenuous Reflection Of Luminous Insects, And Their Lungs Were Overwhelmed By A Suffocating Smell Of Blood.

Love Does Not Die, When Someone Gets Old, People Get Old, Because They Can Not Love Anymore.