I just finished Colson Whitehead's "The Underground Railroad," which I think is a work of genius.

He stepped off the pavement like a man jumping off a bridge, as calm as a swimmer with an ocean out below. Lucy had known what he was going to do the instant their eyes met. She'd know what he intended because she would have done the very same thing if she'd had his courage. Nothing was going to break his fall.

The evening had turned sweet and blue.

Emily Brontë's "Wuthering Heights" was extremely important to me.

I love science fiction but especially his because it's so humane.

My grief was cold. It was nothing to share. It was nothing to speak about, nothing to feel.

That's why there are ten gates to pass through before you reach the garden. If life were easy there would be one gate. There would be no gates at all.