Paul Harding

I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

But he could not let go of the idea that she was not gone. She was still here. Alive. He could feel her in the room all around him. He could hear her calling out to him from the walls.

It is all very well and good to keep silence, but one has also a duty to speak.

Everything is made to perish; the wonder of anything at all is that it has not already done so. No, he thought. The wonder of anything is that it was made in the first place. What existence, after all, is not a miracle?

I am going to sit here until I can't stand it anymore, and then I will write, and if I never get published, I will have had a life that few writers ever get to have.

If I were to write, I would have to write about her. There is no one else I would care to write about. She is the only one. The only one I have ever met or ever will meet.

The force of a person's character, of their very soul, is revealed in the way they end.

He thought of the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was not a thing that passed. It was not a thing that happened. It was a thing that had always been. It was a picture of the sea.

The world is so beautiful that it fills me with a feeling of sadness that I will never be able to see all of it as I want to see it.

He felt a great surge of joy and peace, and he realized that the absence of suffering was not the same as happiness.

You float like a feather and I never know where you are going to land.

He was not sleeping. He was not dreaming. He was not waking. He was not waiting. He was not still. He was not old. He was not young. He was not tired. He was not afraid. He was not anything.