Writing is my form of celebration and prayer.

habit, a particularly insidious thug who chokes passion and smothers love. Habit puts us on autopilot.

Nature is more like a seesaw than a crystal, a never-ending conga line of bold moves and corrections.

Much of life becomes background, but it is the province of art to throw buckets of light into the shadows and make life new again.

I consider fiction a very high-class form of lying. I enjoy and admire it enormously, but I don't think I'm very good at it.

Of all the errands life seems to be running, of all the mysteries that enchant us, love is my favorite

We evolved as creatures knitted into the fabric of nature, and without its intimate truths, we can find ourselves unraveling.