He doesn't have to say it, i feel it too; it's not subtle - like every bell for miles and miles is ringing at once, loud and clanging, hungry ones and tiny, happy, chiming ones, all of them sounding off in this moment. I put my hands around his neck, pull him to me, and then he's kissing me hard and so deep, and i am flying, sailing, soaring.

How can the word love, the word life, even fit in the mouth?

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.

And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?

Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.

When I'm with him, there is someone with me in my house of grief, someone who knows its architecture as I do, who can walk with me, from room to sorrowful room, making the whole rambling structure of wind and emptiness not quite as scary, as lonely as it was before.

I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.