We are lonesome animals. We spend all our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say — and to feel — "Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought."

A stilted heron labored up into the air and pounded down the river.

It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we invented them.

for how can you remember the feel of pleasure or pain or choking emotion? You can remember only that you had them.

Time is the only critic without ambition.

Thou mayest rule over sin.

The craft or art of writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for the wordlessness.