People forget the good, because the bad has more punch.

At times the whole sky was ringed in shooting points and puckers of light gathering and falling, pulsing, fading, rhythmical as breathing. All of a piece. As if the sky were a pattern of nerves and our thought and memories traveled across it. As if the sky were one gigantic memory for us all.

To love another another human in all of her splendor and imperfect perfection , it is a magnificent task...tremendous and foolish and human.

...whom he had saved from a life of excessive freedom

Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.

To be of mixed blood is a great gift for a writer. I have one foot on tribal lands and one foot in middle-class life.

Here I am, where I ought to be. A writer must have a place where he or she feels this, the place to love and be irritated with.