I don't think goodness is something that you learn. If you're left adrift in the world to learn goodness from it, you would be in trouble.

It is supposed to true that those who do not know history are condemned to repeat it. I don't believe knowing can save us. What is constant in history is greed and foolishness and love of blood.

This place aint the same. It never will be. Maybe we've all got a little crazy. I guess if everbody went crazy together nobody would notice, what do you think?

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

I will do what I promised." He whispered. "No matter what. I will not send you into the darkness alone.

He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

Teaching writing is a hustle.