But sometimes even the sky is dangerous. I look up and see your face in the stars.

The future will be gorgeous and reckless, and words, those luminous charms, will set us free again.

How I love them. How good they are. They endure endless hours of me talking about the future. They keep me near and at the same time bid me farewell. That is what real love is.

But sometimes even the sky is dangerous. I look up and see your face in the stars.

If writing is language and language is desire and longing and suffering . . . then why when we write, when we make shapes on paper, why then does it so often look like the traditional, straight models, why does our longing look for example like John Updike's longing?

One of the strangest things about writing well is that it requires two different zones in the brain--rigor and recklessness--simultaneously.

The Voice of the River is a beautifully written, deeply inclusive and profoundly spirtual work of art. I am moved by its great genorosity above all, and its wisdom. It is a gift like no other.