When a Jew dies on a Christian bosom he dies impaled.

But death is intimacy walking backward. We are crazed with grief when she, who once permitted us, leaves to us the only recollection.

None of us suffers as much as we should, or loves as much as we say. Love is the first lie; wisdom the last.

Only the impossible lasts forever, with time, it is made accessible. Robin's love and mine was always impossible, and loving each other, we no longer love. Yet we love each other like death.

…everything we do is decent when the mind begins to forget — the design of life; and good when we are forgotten — the design of death.