“He smelled the garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, "Life is so beautiful."...Yes, he thought, if I can die saying, "Life is so beautiful," then nothing else is important.”

“Yet, he thought, if I can die saying, "Life is so beautiful," then nothing else is important. If i can believe in myself that much, nothing else matters.”

“His eyes beheld beauty not in reality but in the printed word. Standing in the waiting-room, he realized that in his life he had accepted secondary experience -- the experience of reading someone else's thoughts -- over real life. ”

“His back was to me and he was wearing pajama bottoms and nothing else. His shoulders, the smooth muscles of his back, the wide expanse of smooth, tan skin, was all exposed to the naked eye and I was blinded by the beauty of it. So much, it was a wonder I didn't throw out my hand reeling.At that thought, he turned and gave me a view of his chest.At this view, arguably better than his back, I sucked in a breath then whispered to myself, "Oh my God.”

“So tell me honey," he said just above a whisper, "what's got your beautiful eyes so sad?”

“He looked around at the perfectly white world, felt the wet kisses of the snowflakes, pondered hidden meanings in the pale yellow streetlights that shone in a world so whitely asleep. "Beautiful," he whispered.”