If a piece of knotted string can unleash the wind, and if a drowned man can awaken, then I believe a broken man can heal.

If you can't fix it, you have to stand it.

It's easier to die if others around you are dying.

We're all strange inside. We learn how to disguise our differences as we grow up.

I find it satisfying and intellectually stimulating to work with the intensity, brevity, balance and word play of the short story.

Walking on the land or digging in the fine soil I am intensely aware that time quivers slightly, changes occurring in imperceptible and minute ways, accumulating so subtly that they seem not to exist. Yet the tiny shifts in everything--cell replication, the rain of dust motes, lengthening hair, wind-pushed rocks--press inexorably on and on.

Was love then like a bag of assorted sweets passed around from which one might choose more than once? Some might sting the tongue, some invoke night perfume. Some had centers as bitter as gall, some blended honey and poison, some were quickly swallowed. And among the common bull's-eyes and peppermints a few rare ones; one or two with deadly needles at the heart, another that brought clam and gentle pleasure. Were his fingers closing on that one?