Sublime

Then he smiled fondly, as if at a memory; it occurred to him that he was nearly sixty years old and that he ought to be beyond the force of such passion, of such love. But he was not beyond it, he knew, and would never be. Beneath the numbness, the indifference, the removal, it was there, intense and steady; it had always been there. In his youth h

A name is destiny, if you think it is.

Each sentence he wrote about the sport he loved was a match lit against his internal darkness.

But in the world of satisfying stories—her preferred domain—both of Olivia’s parents are so much less than they should have been.