I measure my life in sentences pressed out, line by line, like the lustrous ooze on the underside of the snail, the snail's secret open seam, its wound, leaking attar.

Time at length becomes justice.

Death persecutes before it executes.

Old saws have no teeth.

Much of the academy on the humanities side, English departments in particular, no longer write what can pass for normal English.

Language makes culture, and we make a rotten culture when we abuse words.

Every writer aspires to recognition , and it comes entirely privately, without public fanfare, each time a piece of work is judged worthy of publication.