How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?

I love you not for the person you are, but for your possibilities.

The irony of Christmas is always upon the poor in heart; the mystery of the solstice is always upon the rest of us.

I believe that writing is an account of the powers of extrication.

Art is the triumph over chaos.

How can we describe the most exalted experience of our physical lives [sex], as if-jack, wrench, hubcap, and nuts-we were describing the changing of a flat tire?

How can a people who do not mean to understand death hope to understand love, and who will sound the alarm?