Think of a rock polisher, one of those drums, goes round and round, rolls twenty-four/seven, full of water and rocks and gravel. Grinding it all up. Round and round. Polishing those ugly rocks into gemstones. That’s the earth. Why it goes around. We’re the rocks. And what happens to us—the drama and pain and joy and war and sickness and victory and abuse—why, that’s just the water and sand to erode us. Grind us down. To polish us up, nice and bright.

Without pain, without sacrifice we would have nothing. Like the first monkey shot into space.

History is nothing except monsters or victims. Or witnesses.

The greatest weapon any warrior can carry into battle is absolute certainty of her eternal soul.

You tell yourself that noise is what defines silence. Without noise, silence would not be golden. Noise is the exception.

I remember selling my first short story and thinking, Oh my god, I sold something for fifty dollars! That gives me the authority to say I'm a writer and to actually write more things! It legitimized the activity.

Disaster is a natural part of my evolution toward tragedy and dissolution.