Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving,

Ghosts... they are the completions of the deads intended gestures, there unfinished plans still hanging in the air - something like when you forgot one thing and so you pantomime the motion.

any time I spent with Ruth should be regarded as precious. War, after all, was everywhere.

The only real people are the people who never existed, and if a novelist is base enough to go to life for his personages he should at least pretend that they are creations, and not boast of them as copies.

Written By Oscar Wilde

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