The child who is uprooted begins to recognize that what he builds within himself is what will endure, what will withstand shattering experiences.

It is possible I never learned the names of birds in order to discover the bird of peace, the bird of paradise, the bird of the soul, the bird of desire. It is possible I avoided learning the names of composers and their music the better to close my eyes and listen to the mystery of all music as an ocean. It may be I have not learned dates in history in order to reach the essence of timelessness. It may be I never learned geography the better to map my own routes and discover my own lands. The unknown was my compass. The unknown was my encyclopedia. The unnamed was my science and progress.

I am a winged creature who is too rarely allowed to use its wings. Ecstasies do not occur often enough.

The child in me could not die as it should have died, because according too legends it must find its father again. The old legends knew, perhaps, that in absence the father becomes glorified, deified, eroticized, and this outrage against God the Father has to be atoned for. The human father has to be confronted and recognized as human, as man who created a child and then, by his absence, left the child fatherless and then Godless.

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

One may gain one truth at the expense of another.

At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.