“Other letters simply relate the small events that punctuate the passing of time: roses picked at dusk, the laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child crying himself to sleep. Capturing the moment, these small slices of life, these small gusts of happiness, move me more deeply than all the rest. A couple of lines or eight pages, a Middle Eastern stamp or a suburban postmark... I hoard all these letters like treasure.”
“I adore correspondence. When a letter arrives from a friend it is like getting a small present.”
“Time heals all wounds or Time wounds all heels. Take your pick... oh, life's small choices.”
“I want to leave all my friends and the sunlight for a small, rainy town.”
“The part of life we really live is small.' For all the rest of existence is not life, but merely time.”
“Hunched down in the small bright room Nel waited. Waited for the oldest cry. A scream not for others, not in sympathy for a burnt child, or a dead father, but a deeply personal cry for one's own pain. A loud, strident: 'Why me?' She waited.”