I work mornings only. I go out to lunch. Afternoons I play with the baby, walk with my husband, or shovel mail.

The universe that suckled us is a monster that does not care if we live or die--it does not care if it itself grinds to a halt. It is a beast running on chance and death, careening from nowhere to nowhere. It is fixed and blind, a robot programmed to kill. We are free and seeing; we can only try to outwit it at every turn to save our lives.

The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.

The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel.

Last forever!' Who hasn't prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying.

He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, for that is what he will know.

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.