The Greek language seems different than other languages. I'm not the only person to think this. Usually, I come up with some kind of dopey metaphor for why it's different. But it seems, somehow, more original, more like being in the morning of language.

A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.

I do think I have an ability to record sensual and emotional facts and factoids, to construct a convincing surface of what life feels like, both physical life and emotional life.

Consider incompleteness as a verb.

I do think that something of the effect I have on people is to put everything on an edge where they're both infatuated with a kind of charmingness happening in the person or in the writing, and also flatly terrified by a revelation or acceptance of revelation that's almost happening, never quite totally happening.

If your way of life is writing, then everything that happens becomes a sentence.

To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.