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I've read there is no such thing as a single tear, that old poetic trope. And perhaps there isn't, since hers was simply a companion to my own.

Elizabeth Kostova

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Elizabeth Kostova
Age: 59
Born: 1964
Born: December 26
Author
Novelist
Writer
New London
Connecticut
Elizabeth Johnson Kostova
Read
Tear
Thing
Poetic
Companion
Tears
Perhaps
Single
Simply
Trope
Since
Tropes

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Faith is simply whatever is real to us.
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Today I will go to wait for her again, because I cannot help it, because my whole being seems now to be bound up in the being of one so different from myself and yet so exquisitely familiar that I can scarely understand what has happened.
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I've always been interested in foreign relations. It's my belief that study of history should be our preparation for understanding the present rather than an escape from it.
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In those days, I still thoroughly enjoyed the romance I called by myself I didn't know yet how it gets lonely, picks up a sharp edge later on that ruins a day now and then-- ruins more than that, if you're not careful.
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It touched me to be trusted with something terrible.
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There is nothing harder, at moments, than talking to someone who has all the power of silence.
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He brought his great hand to rest on an early edition of Bram Stoker's novel and smiled, but said nothing. Then he moved quietly away into another section.
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If there is any good in life, in history, in my own past, I invoke it now. I invoke it with all the passion with which I have lived.
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In the end, I always act from the heart, even if I also value reason and tradition. I wish I could explain why, but I don't know.
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It's funny in this era of e-mail and voice mail and all those things that even I did not grow up with, a plain old paper letter takes on amazing intimacy.
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I wasn't brought up to be dazzled by money or fame.
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For the first time, I had been struck by the excitement of the traveler who looks history in her subtle face.
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My guess is that he remembers some of me, some of us together, and the rest rolled off him like topsoil in a flash flood.
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And how could anyone consent to give up the smell of open books, old or new?
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I was filled with angst in college, that I struggled with the question of my future, the meaning of my life - spoiled sheltered rich girl collides with great books and is devastated by her own banality.
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The heart does not go backward. Only the mind.
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...what will we someday do, I always wonder, without the pleasures of turning through books and stumbling on things we never meant to find?
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Never before had I known the sudden quiver of understanding that travels from word to brain to heart, the way a new language can move, coil, swim into life under the eyes, the almost savage leap of comprehension, the instantaneous, joyful release of meaning, the way the words shed their printed bodies in a flash of heat and light.
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Recently abandoned women can be complicated.
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You are a total stranger and you want to take my library book.
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