It is all falling indelibly into the past.

Look past the violence. There is a wonderful brimming spirit of innocence and fun.

What we are reluctant to touch often seems the very fabric of our salvation.

The force of a death should be enormous but how can you know what kind of man you've killed or who was the braver and stronger if you have to peer through layers of glass that deliver the image but obscure the meaning of the act? War has a conscience or it's ordinary murder.

I don't know what I think about certain subjects, even today, until I sit down and try to write about them.

I didn’t do anything. I don’t have an explanation, I don’t know why I wanted to write. I did some short stories at that time, but very infrequently. I quit my job just to quit. I didn’t quit my job to write fiction. I just didn’t want to work anymore

It is possible to be homesick for a place even when you are there.