Everything in writing begins with language. Language begins with listening.

The stories we sit up late to hear are love stories. It seems that we cannot know enough about this riddle of our lives. We go back and back to the same scenes, the same words, trying to scrape out the meaning. Nothing could be more familiar than love. Nothing else eludes us so completely.

Sometimes you have to live in precarious and temporary places. Unsuitable places. Wrong places. Sometimes the safe place won't help you.

When pieces of work speak to us in a way that feels as if they were made just for us, those become our private worlds that we return to.

When I say 'I will be true to you' I am drawing a quiet space beyond the reach of other desires.

In the presence of love, hearth and quest become one.

Whatever it is that pulls the pin, that hurls you past the boundaries of your own life into a brief and total beauty, even for a moment, it is enough.