I like to write about certain things that if they are not written about are not going to exist.

A light snow, a snow so faint and small-bodied that it seems nothing more than a manifestation of the cold.

Events need their invitation, dissolutions their start.

They are travelling cheaply, with that touch of indolence and occasional luxury that comes only from having real resources. They live in Levis and sunlight. Sometimes they brush their teeth in streams.

Life is weather. Life is meals.

The book was in her lap; she had read no further. The power to change one’s life comes from a paragraph, a lone remark. The lines that penetrate us are slender, like the flukes that live in river water and enter the bodies of swimmers. She was excited, filled with strength. The polished sentences had arrived, it seemed, like so many other things, at just the right time. How can we imagine what our lives should be without the illumination of the lives of others?

Love must wait; it must break one’s bones.