Top Highlights

• Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well.
• That was where they walked up the sleigh-smoothed urine-yellowed road along the river with the steep pine hills, skis heavy on the shoulder, and where they ran that great run down the glacier above the Madlener-haus, the snow as smooth to see as cake frosting and as light as powder and he remembered the noiseless rush the speed made as you dropped ...
• How could a woman know that you meant nothing that you said; that you spoke only from habit and to be comfortable?
• But he would never do it, because each day of not writing, of comfort, of being that which he despised, dulled his ability and softened his will to work so that, finally, he did no work at all.
• So this was how you died, in whispers that you did not hear.