There is a strange moment in time, after something horrible happens, when you know it's true, but you haven't told anyone yet.

Fiction is a sort of inter-human magic, allowing you to travel into a scene and feel it tingle on your skin.

In the places that call me out, I know I'll recover my wordless childhood trust in the largeness of life and its willingness to take me in.

Bitter words normally evaporate with the moisture of breath, after a quarrel. In order to become permanent, they require transcribers, reporters, complicit black hearts.

People love to read about sins and errors, but not their own.

Perhaps growing up meant we put our knives away and feigned ignorance of the damage.

Hunger of the body is altogether different from the shallow, daily hunger of the belly. Those who have known this kind of hunger cannot entirely love, ever again, those who have not.