It is not, as somebody once wrote, the smell of corn bread that calls us back from death; it is the lights and signs of love and friendship.
The need to write comes from the need to make sense of one's life and discover one's usefulness.
It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong.
A page of good prose remains invincible.
The short story is the literature of the nomad.
The constants that I look for are a love of light and a determination to trace some moral chain of being.