When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.

What do I make of all this texture? What does it mean about the kind of world in which I have been set down? The texture of the world, its filigree and scrollwork, means that there is the possibility for beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers in me a call I do not remember calling, and which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit I seek.

He judged the instant and let go; he flung himself loose into the stars.

Make connections; let rip; and dance where you can.

Like everyone in his right mind, I feared Santa Claus.

Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.

I had been chipping at the world idly, and had by accident uncovered vast and labyrinthine further worlds within it.