It was another of those big life-changing moments when you didn’t know what the next ten seconds would bring but you knew that nothing would ever be the same after.
'Why is it,' he said, one time, at the subway entrance, ‘I feel I’ve known you so many years?’ ‘Because I like you,’ she said, ‘and I don’t want anything from you.’
Her mind was like her room, in which lights advanced and retreated, came pirouetting and stepping delicately, spread their tails, pecked their way; and then her whole being was suffused, like the room again with a cloud of some profound knowledge, some unspoken regret, and then she was full of locked drawers, stuffed with letters, like her cabinets.
Books are a uniquely portable magic.
— Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft (via observando)
The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.
— John Green