Pride is the rope God allows us all.

You can embark on new and steeper versions of your old sins, you know, and cry tears while doing it that are genuine as any.

Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature.

Many a night I woke to the murmer of paper and knew (Dad) was up, sitting in the kitchen with frayed King James - oh, but he worked that book; he held to it like a rope ladder.

What else exhausts like sustained deception?

Love is a strange fact - it hopes all things, believes all things, endures all things. It makes no sense at all.

You can’t kill history. You can’t shoot it with a bullet and watch it recede into whatever lies outside of memory. History is tougher than that—if it’s going to die, it has to die on its own