Quotes About Reflection

Ursula missed the sound of church bells. There were so many simple things she had taken for granted before the war. She wished that she could go back and appreciate them properly.

Home was an idea, and like Arcadia it was lost in the past. She

by reading book after book (the only reliable otherworlds I've discovered so far).

anthroposophy, spiritualism. Everyone needs to make sense

You have an eye," Miss Gillies told her. I have two, she thought.)

The hotel gave him a twin-bedded room, which seemed worse, the unoccupied bed like a reproach somehow.

Her past already seemed an antiquated curiosity—a virtual space re-created by the museum of the future.

I don't understand." "Well, when you arrived at St. George's you wouldn't stop screaming. They thought something terrible must have happened to you." "This isn't St. George's, is it?" "No," he said kindly. "This is a private clinic. Rest, good food and so on. They have lovely gardens. I always think a lovely garden helps, don't you?

Notes of the 'Remember to' variety that the owner must have written to herself. Miss Matilda

There was something to be said for dying before you ended up in incontinence pads, watching an endless loop of reruns of Friends.

Life was for absorbing, not recording. And in the end, it was all just paper that someone would have to dispose of after you were gone.

disengaging from the rat race Jackson

Life's too short," she said. There were days when Jackson thought life was too long.

Time did not heal—it merely rubbed at the wound, slowly and relentlessly.

Terence Smith. Graham's golem, formed from the slime at the bottom of a pond of lowlifes somewhere in the Midlands.

Gloria watched as Terry lumbered down the path. He reminded her a little of King Kong, but less friendly.

I always thought the girl in that picture had the look of a frog about her," Nancy said, thinking, I look enigmatic because I'm dying. "Isn't

He noticed that Ursula's ox-eye daisies, wrapped in damp newspaper, were drooping, almost dead. Nothing could be kept, he thought, everything ran through one's fingers like sand or water. Or time. Perhaps nothing should be kept.

It's never too late,' I said vaguely. A lie, of course, as often, unfortunately, it is much too late.

I heard someone say once that hindsight was a wonderful thing, that without it there would be no history.

she had never been pregnant, never been a mother or a wife, and it was only when she realized that it was too late, that it could never be, that she understood what it was that she had lost.

Mum had worshipped Princess Di and frequently lamented her passing. "Gone," she would say, shaking her head in disbelief. "Just like that. All that exercise for nothing." Diana-worship was the nearest thing Mum had to a religion.

Harold?' 'Poor man, I suppose

Viola hadn't seen Sunny for nearly ten years and in the interim he had turned into a complete human being. ("Perhaps the two things aren't unrelated," Bertie said.)