Gail had a baby named Ned who was four months old, and a new look of baffled hurt, a left-behind sadness, like she saw that the great world kept spinning onward and away while she'd overnight become glued to her spot.

Long, dark, and lovely she had been, in those days before her mind broke and the parts scattered and she let them go.

When I started to be a writer, I was not going to run the risk of boring you.

I had been born shoved to the margins of the world, sure, but I had volunteered for the pits.

Pine trees with low limbs spread over fresh snow made a stronger vault for the spirit than pews and pulpits ever could.

I felt like a number of things in me as a writer just clicked.

He unscrewed the lid, set it on the dash, snorted from the bottle twice, banged the steering wheel, and said, 'You got to be ready to die every day - then you got a chance.'