As I get older, my childhood self becomes more accessible to me, but selectively, in images as stylized and suspect as moments remembered from a novel read years ago.

How sad, how strange, we make companions out of air and hurt them, so they will defy us, completing creation.

In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.

But for a few phrases from his letters and an odd line or two of his verse, the poet walks gagged through his own biography.

...hate suits him better than forgiveness. Immersed in hate, he doesn't have to do anything; he can be paralyzed, and the rigidty of hatred makes a kind of shelter for him.

History. The more of it you have the more you have to live it. After a little while there gets to be too much of it to memorize and maybe that's when empires start to decline.

In all the green world nothing feels as good as a woman's good nature.