My mom says I'm destined to be the sort of man who uses big words but pronounces them incorrectly.

Pain collected into deep pockets and I was aware of this painbut somehow I could not seem to feel it. It was like a body-deafness.

Given the brevity of our time here, it does seem likely that our species, too, must have at best a blinkered understanding of the shape of things, the import of certain events and what distinguishes "good" from "bad" luck.

It was sad and fierce all at once, alive with a lonely purity.

I do think that I have a more flexible view of the interactions between people, and between human and non-human protagonists, humans and their landscapes.

A food truce, the picnic suspension of oedipal feeling that permits the generations to love each other at family reunions.

I hope that in my thirties I grow as a writer, push into new territory.