When I looked at the painting I felt the same convergence on a single point: a flickering sun-struck instance that existed now and forever. Only occasionally did I notice the chain on the finch's ankle, or think what a cruel life for a little living creature - fluttering briefly, forced always to land in the same hopeless place.

Any action, in the fullness of time, sinks to nothingness.

It's hard for me to show work while I'm writing, because other people's comments will influence what happens.

I guess that anything we manage to save from history is a miracle.

Storytelling and elegant style don't always go hand in hand.

Who cares? If he is good to you? None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?

What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?