Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end.

I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too.

We are here to abet creation and to witness to it, to notice each other's beautiful face and complex nature so that creation need not play to an empty house.

Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you.

The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.

If I actually believed that the progress of human understanding depended on our crop of contemporary novelists, I would shoot myself.

There are no events but thoughts and the heart's hard turning, the heart's slow learning where to love and whom. The rest is merely gossip, and tales for other times.