He has to find more and better ways of occupying his time. His time, what a bankrupt idea, as if he's been given a box of time belonging to him alone, stuffed to the brim with hours and minutes that he can spend like money. Trouble is, the box has holes in it and the time is running out, no matter what he does with it.

I think calling it climate change is rather limiting. I would rather call it the everything change.

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium.

We'll choose knowledge no matter what, we'll maim ourselves in the process, we'll stick our hands into the flames for it if necessary. Curiosity is not our only motive; love or grief or despair or hatred is what drives us on. We'll spy relentlessly on the dead; we'll open their letters, we'll read their journals, we'll go through their trash, hoping for a hint, a final word, an explanation, from those who have deserted us--who've left us holding the bag, which is often a good deal emptier than we'd supposed.

My brother and I were both teenage writers, and he was, I have to say, better than I was, but he went into science, and I went into writing.

Potential has a shelf life.

The heart of Jesus glowed, because it was holy. Holy things glowed in general.