It's a little silly to finally learn how to write at this age. But I long ago realized I was secretly sincere.

The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.

But enough is enough. One turns at last even from glory itself with a sigh of relief. From the depths of mystery, and even from the heights of splendor, we bounce back and hurry for the latitudes of home.

What is important is the moment of opening a life and feeling it touch--with an electric hiss and cry--this speckled mineral sphere, our present world.

If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldn't believe the world existed.

Nothing moves a woman so deeply as the boyhood of the man she loves.

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.