If you don't have a unique voice, then you're not really a writer.

You can step in the same river but the water will always be new.

Life wasn't about becoming, was it? It was about being.

Perhaps we are on an insula ex machina, an artificial place not in the real world at all -- a backdrop for the stories we must tell.

In the end, it is my belief, words are the only things that can construct a world that makes sense.

The beginning is the word and the end is silence. And in between are all the stories.

When you chopped logs with the ax and they split open they smelled beautiful, like Christmas. But when you split someone's head open it smelled like abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you'd cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already another life.