She was a very small girl with a face as lovely and fresh as her son’s face — a very small girl. Most of the time she knew she was smarter and pretti… - John Steinbeck

I eat stories like grapes.

Nearly everyone has his box of secret pain, shared with no one. Will had concealed his well, laughed loud, exploited perverse virtues, and never let his jealousy go wandering. He thought of himself as slow, doltish, conservative, uninspired. No great dream lifted him high and no despair forced self destruction. He was always on the edge, trying to hold on to the rim of the family with what gifts he had — care, and reason, application. He kept the books, hired the attorneys, called the
undertaker, and eventually paid the bills. The others didn’t even know they needed him. He had the
ability to get money and to keep it. He thought the Hamiltons despised him for his one ability. He had
loved them doggedly, had always been at hand with his money to pull them out of their errors. He thought they were ashamed of him, and he fought bitterly for their recognition. All of this was in the frozen wind that blew through him.

You've seen the sun flatten and take strange shapes just before it sinks in the ocean. Do you have to tell yourself every time that it's an illusion caused by atmospheric dust and light distorted by the sea, or do you simply enjoy the beauty of it?