Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins.

A plot begins when somebody has something to hide.

All a work of art can do is present the surface. I can't know the insides of people. I know very little about the inside of myself.

I think I'm less the writer than I'm the written.

Where I went, no one could follow. Yet someone managed to hold my hand.

You will remember this when all else fades, this moment, here, together, by this well. There will be certain days, and certain nights, you’ll feel my presence near you, hear my voice. You’ll think you have imagined it and yet, inside you, you will catch an answering cry. On April evenings, when the rain has ceased, your heart will shake, you’ll weep for nothing, pine for what’s not there. For you, this life will never be enough, there will forever be an emptiness, where once the god was all in all in you.

In order really to write one has to sink deep into the self and become lost there.