One of the many interesting challenges nature presents us is its apparent disinterest in maintaining the order humans crave.

Talking, talking. Spinning a web of words, pale walls of dreams, between myself and all I see.

When I was a child I truly loved: Unthinking love as calm and deep As the North Sea. But I have lived, And now I do not sleep.

Art, of course, is a way of thinking, a way of mining reality.

We know that where community exists in confers upon its members identity, a sense of belonging, and a measure of security. . . . Communities are the ground-level generators and preservers of values and ethical systems.

Writing a novel is like heading out over the open sea in a small boat. It helps, if you have a plan and a course laid out.

So childhood too feels good at first, before one happens to notice the terrible sameness, age after age.