It's a rare book that wins the battle against drooping eyelids.
He saw things in a way that others did not, so that a city I had lived in all my life seemed a different place, so that a woman became beautiful with the light on her face.
Jane Austen easily used half a page describing someone else's eyes; she would not appreciate summarizing her reading tastes in ten titles.
You're so calm and quiet, you never say. But there are things inside you. I see them sometimes, hiding in your eyes.
I had walked along that street all my life, but had never been so aware that my back was to my home.
Say something worth the words.
So many (too many) books are published every year, and it seems everyone is writing a book. Perhaps we should all be reading more and writing less!
My father was often impatient during March, waiting for winter to end, the cold to ease, the sun to reappear. March was an unpredictable month, when it was never clear what might happen. Warm days raised hopes until ice and grey skies shut over the town again.