If we were all on trial for our thoughts, we would all be hanged. - Margaret Atwood

To pronounce the name of the dead is to make them live again.

This afternoon held that special quality of mournful emptiness I've connected with late Sunday afternoons ever since childhood: the feeling of having nothing to do.

I forgave her, of course. I always did; I had to, because there were only the two of us. The two of us on our thorn-encircled island, waiting for rescue; and, on the mainland, everyone else.