Smells could bring a person back clearer than pictures even could.

I wonder how many times we dream that kind of dream-something strange and illogical-and fail to realize God is trying to tell us something.

I read so I can live more than one life in more than one place.

For my own family, I would always choose the makeshift, surrogate family formed by various characters unrelated by blood.

Odd how clear it suddenly became, once a person had died, that the body was the very least of him.

We stay in the house so much because I am waiting for the telephone. I seem to be back in my teens, a period I thought I would never have to endure again: my life is spent hoping for things that only someone else can bring about.

I just want to be told a story, and I want to believe I'm living that story, and I don't give a thought to influences or method or any other writerly concerns