Man's guilt in history and in the tides of his own blood has been complicated by technology, the daily seeping falsehearted death.

Digital clocks took the 'space' out of time.

At night the sky was very near, sprawled in star smoke and gamma cataclysms, but she didn't see it the way she used to, as soul extension, dumb guttural wonder, a thing that lived outside language in the oldest part of her.

The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence.

Silence, exile, cunning and so on... it's my nature to keep quiet about most things. Even the ideas in my work.

Writing is a concentrated form of thinking...a young writer sees that with words he can place himself more clearly into the world. Words on a page, that's all it takes to help him separate himself from the forces around him, streets and people and pressures and feelings. He learns to think about these things, to ride his own sentences into new perceptions.

It is all falling indelibly into the past.