Edith Wharton

I suppose there is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person however dear and beloved but an expansion an interpretation of one’s self.

I suppose there is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person however dear and beloved but an expansion an interpretation of one’s self.

– Edith Wharton –

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Pat Conroy

I meditated on the nature of friendship as I practiced the craft. My friends had always come from outside the mainstream. I had always been popular with the fifth column of my peers, those individuals who were princely in their solitude, lords of their own unpraised melancholy. Distrusting the approval of the chosen, I would take the applause of exiles anytime. My friends were all foreigners, and they wore their unbelongingness in their eyes. I hunted for that look; I saw it often, disarrayed and fragmentary and furious, and I approached every boy who invited me in.

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