Words are such small things, like confetti in the brain, and yet they are color and clarify everything, they can stain the mind or warp the feelings.

Love is the most important thing in our lives, a passion for which we would fight or die, and yet we're reluctant to linger over its names. Without a supple vocabulary, we can't even talk or think about it directly.

The knowing, I told myself, is only a vapor of the mind, and yet it can wreck havok with one's sanity.

Home is where the heart is, we say, rubbing the flint of one abstraction against another.

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

... love is an act of sedition, a revolt against reason, an uprising in the body politic, a private mutiny.

Love is the white light of emotion.