Words are humanity's greatest natural resource, but most of us have trouble figuring out how to put them together. Words aren't cheap. They are very precious. They are like water, which gives life and growth and refreshment, but because it has always been abundant, we treat it cheaply. We waste it; we pollute it, and doctor it. Later we blame the quality of the water because we have misused it.

The last dregs of winter spoiling the taste of everything.

As I look back on what I have written, I can see that the very persons who have taken away my time are those who have given me something to say.

What a gift of grace to be able to take the chaos from within and from it create some semblance of order.

I have been mocked by beauty, too. But it was the beauty which cost me nothing that in the end turned upon me.

My heart is heavy, she thought. It’s not just a saying. It is what is—heavy, a great stone lodged in my breast, pressing down my whole being. How can I even stand straight and look out upon the world? I am doubled over into myself and, for all the weight, find only emptiness.

The difference between writing a story and simply relating past events is that a story, in order to be acceptable, must have shape and meaning. It is the old idea that art is the bringing of order out of chaos.