Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a word to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and delight, the canary that sings on the skull.

When you write, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner's pick, a wood carver's gouge, a surgeon's probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow, or this time next year.

You can serve or you can sing, and wreck your heart in prayer, working the world's hard work.

A schedule defends from chaos and whim. A net for catching days.

I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery.

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