all I feel sure of are questions.
Anthony DoerrThese were the beginnings of a new existence; Winkler could feel it gestating.
Anthony DoerrMaybe the idea was that he could write so many letters, deliver so many envelopes back to Sandy, eventually he'd have sent all of himself, and could exist more there than he did here.
Anthony DoerrAm I following a path already laid out for me, or am I making it myself?
Anthony DoerrOur shadows are our histories. We drag them everywhere.
Anthony DoerrWhat use are memories when memories can do little more than fade?
Anthony DoerrHe marveled at the indifference of the world, the way it kept on, despite everything.
Anthony DoerrHow few days are left in the lives of anyone. How few hours.
Anthony DoerrMaybe he was dead and this island was purgatory from which he could only watch the souls of the more deserving go shuttling past to their various Edens. What is death, after all, but a cessation of involvement with the world, a departure from those you love, and those who love you?
Anthony DoerrWho had he been? A failed father, a runaway husband. A son. A packet of unopened letters. He was dead; he was dead.
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