Pain and betrayal and then nothingness. That’s the death and she’s almost welcoming it.

People don’t say what they mean very often. You have to read between the lines of their behavior, of what they say, to get to what they truly feel. That’s what good literature is all about – what Austen did better than anyone.

Pain and betrayal and then nothingness. That's the death and she's almost welcoming it.

He feels her heart race madly against his own and for a second he thinks it’s finally happened , he’s come alive.

He’d never thought of death like that, like it’s some sort of other life that you can hope for, dream of. Escape to. That it can rescue you.

The day is crisp and clear, almost like every other morning he's taken the same walk in the snow, hiking to the forest and back.

That was the secret of the salvation he brought, that was the light he shone into the darkness; and that was why they wanted to kill him. Because they preferred the darkness to the light.

People don't say what they mean very often. You have to read between the lines of their behavior, of what they say, to get to what they truly feel. That's what good literature is all about-- what Austen did better than anyone.

So you say there is no Father Christmas,                                                                          You say there is no Santa Claus                                                                                         Reindeer cannot fly, it's all a grown-up lie...

There's such an intimate kind of beauty in the act of listening to music being created right in front of your eyes, watching the notes fly off the performers' fingertips, the night enveloping you like a blanket.