Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous. — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
He said that in a way being loved is like being told you never have to die. — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
There are no beginnings, not even to stories. There are only places where you make an entrance into someone else's life and either stay… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“I have dreamt of a life you will never know; the life of a loving and caring companion. I simply thought you should know.… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“You will live when you live. No one else can ever live your life and no one else will ever know what you know...” — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
In the dark that followed - Lucy said; "where I was born, the trees were always in the sun. And I left that place because it was intolerant of rain. Now, we are here in a place where there are no trees and there is only rain. And I intend to leave this place - because it is intolerant of… — Timothy Findley Copy Share
“With Tom, there had never been a door to close, only the grass to lie on, never a bed; no walls, no ceiling to shut them in - or others out. Only the moon to see them, only the moon, some stars and whatever it was that had flown up out of the field when Ede had cried 'don't' in… — Timothy Findley Copy Share
I still maintain that an ordinary human being has the right to be horrified by a mangled body seen on an afternoon walk. — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“Rodwell wandered into No Man's Land and put a bullet through his ears. On Sunday, Robert sat on his bed in the old hotel at Bailleul and read what Rodwell had written. To my daughter, Laurine; Love your mother. Make your prayers against despair. I am alive in everything I touch. Touch these pages and you have me in your… — Timothy Findley Copy Share
They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely. — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
“When Mrs Ross asked him what he was thinking of, he shrugged. But he was thinking of the time he'd climbed the steeple of… — Timothy Findley Copy Share Image
