Loss bites and pulls. It is a thing of hooks sunk into every part of you, parts that you would not think could feel loss like thumbs and lips, hooks moored to wind and memory so that slightest disturbance, the slightest act of recall, tugs at those fine lines. Red is the colour of loss and its smell is like burned roses.

Striving, straining for the clouds, she could hear the voices in the manswarm below shouting, “Never do it, never make it, too far, too high, too much,” and she shouted down to them, “Of course I can, of course I will, watch me, watch me!

The time is short and the hills is dark and I’s got miles to go before I sleeps. Is is no easy road.

Under a sky the color of judgment.

Nothing tells you that you are not on Earth anymore than exhaling at one price and inhaling at another.

The prices are vertiginous. Carlinhos and Wagner take a booth and they talk and dip their wafers of exquisite beef into the sauces but most of the time they keep companionable silence together, as close men do, and find they have communicated everything. Run.

The sense of power, of human ability, was so strong. Many of the men cried. Men are so easily moved.

Her face had always held too much personality to be merely beautiful.

Cibelle understood how the trick was done, how to add your own little ripple to the crest of the hip and watch the chaotic mathematics of storms and power laws magnify it into a fashion wave.

There are too many books in the world.