When I write with others, the pauses and manyfold attempts to get at an idea mirror the cadence of a conversation or the tryings of finding a word that evades the tongue. That searching is such a beautiful thing.

A deposed monarch may go into exile as pretender to the lost throne, hoping to be restored in a subsequent revolution.

Oh dear, dear!—you know you’re sick when someone sends you a bedjacket instead of bath powder or a nice travel book. A bedjacket is almost as antiquated as a bustle or a dress shield. A bedjacket speaks of desperation, and what it says is: toodle-oo.

His actions were perversely cross to his own happiness.