Words are good for saying what things are, but sometimes they don't function for what things aren't.

I have the most charmed, most - I feel entirely blessed and lucky that I have the life that I have.

I want the younger writer to know that she or he is meaningful, that what they have to say is powerful in this world. But they can't come indoors, they can't close the curtains, they can't, like, lock themselves away from the world and say nothing.

He told me once that there was no better faith than a wounded faith and sometimes I wonder if that is what he was doing all along --trying to wound his faith in order to test it--and I was just another stone in the way of his God.

No shame in saying that I felt a loneliness drifting through me. Funny how it was, everyone perched in their own little world with the deep need to talk, each person with their own tale, beginning in some strange middle point, then trying so hard to tell it all, to have it all make sense, logical and final.

That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.

The world does not turn without moments of grace. Who cares how small.