Writing fiction has developed in me an abiding respect for the unknown in a human lifetime and a sense of where to look for the threads, how to follow, how to connect, find in the thick of the tangle what clear line persists.

When they turned off, it was still early in the pink and green fields. The fumes of morning, sweet and bitter, sprang up where they walked. The insects ticked softly, their strength in reserve; butterflies chopped the air, going to the east, and the birds flew carelessly and sang by fits and starts, not the way they did in the evening in sustained and drowsy songs.

Time is anonymous; when we give it a face, it's the same face the world over.

A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within.

A thing is incredible, if ever, only after it is told -- returned to the world it came out of.

The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order the continuous thread of revelation.

I like the feeling of being able to confront an experience and resolve it as art.