I remember when I was a little boy my father didn't love me; he couldn't. He loved my older brother but he couldn't love me somehow, at least not in a way I could understand it.

Feelings are like a color chart that God has given us.

I'll tell you what pressure is. Pressure is a Messerschmitt up your arse. Playing cricket is not.

The problem is that this speeded-up life and stress in America causes us to cut off our feelings, so we are out of touch with our reality.

Memories must enter the bloodstream, must churn awhile through the heart's mill, must be crushed and polished, be nearly forgotten or cling like burs to other stories before they spill forth in purple patterns, shapes of small bones and worm rot, shapes of clouds and the spaces between leaves.

A forest is mystery but the desert is truth. Life pared to the bone.

I am too old to think.