It is easy to forget that in the main we die only seven times more slowly than our dogs.

Wherever we go we do harm, forgiving ourselves as wheels do cement for wearing each other out. We set this house on fire, forgetting that we live within. (from "To a Meadowlark," for M.L. Smoker)

Death steals everything except our stories.

Life is an honor, albeit anonymously delivered.

The wilderness does not make you forget your normal life so much as it removes the distractions for proper remembering.

Life is sentimental. Why should I be cold and hard about it? That's the main content. The biggest thing in people's lives is their loves and dreams and visions, you know.

I'm not rational enough to be a good journalist.