Literature can remind us that not all life is already written down: there are still so many stories to be told.

There's a part of me that thinks perhaps we go on existing in a place even after we've left it.

Goodness was more difficult than evil. Evil men knew that more than good men. That's why they became evil. That's why it stuck with them. Evil was for those who could never reach the truth. It was a mask for stupidity and lack of love. Even if people laughed at the notion of goodness, if they found it sentimental, or nostalgic, it didn't matter -- it was none of those things, he said, and it had to be fought for.

One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.

He's at ease, his body sculpted to the music, his shoulder searching the other shoulder, his right toe knowing the left knee, the height, the depth, the form, the control, the twist of his wrist, the bend of his elbow, the tilt of his neck, notes digging into arteries, and he is in the air now, forcing the legs up beyond muscular memory, one last press of the thighs, an elongation of form, a loosening of human contour, he goes higher and is skyheld.

Literature can remind us that not all life is already written down: there are still so many stories to be told.

The job of the writer is to look at where he is now and make some sort of emotional sense of it, not only for that moment but for years to come.