posthumous

This book belongs to the most rare of men. Perhaps not one of them is yet alive. First the day after tomorrow must come for me. Some men are born posthumously.

As any avid reader knew, a good read deserved a good seat.

To think that she had read the same elegiac prose he now beheld with such quiet awe made his heart sing.

He pinched the remaining chapters_ pages delicately between his fingers and sighed. He always hated reaching the end of a good book.

Immortality was overrated, as far as he was concerned. Hardy had enough problems as it was; living forever sounded like a death sentence for someone with his practical sensibilities.

Maybe that is the greatest of wonders: that we can be shaped so much by those we've known closely, and equally by those we've never known at all - and that we too can change the world long after we've left it.

What difference does it make whether your work is appreciated or not? The work will still be yours. Anyway, most of us are only appreciated after we are dead.

I like a look of agony, because I know it's true