The deeds of men, as footprints in the desert. Nothing under the circling moons is fated to last. Even the sun goes down.

Lazy poets try to elicit a reader's response with words designed to tug at the heart.

Some writers later, describing the events of that night and day, wrote that Wan'yen of the Altai had seen a spirit-dragon of the river and become afraid. Writers do that sort of thing. They like dragons in their tales.

We salvage what we can, what truly matters to us, even at the gates of despair.

When I was 18 years old, in a more innocent time, my first backpacking trip through Europe, I sneaked into the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum after nightfall and spent several hours in there avoiding the guards patrolling.

It was different, though, knowing something in your thoughts and then hearing it confirmed, made real, planted in the world like a tree

I will not say I am sorry, but I can tell you that I grieve.