The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner.

Being edited is like falling face down into a threshing machine.

Some cleric putting a match to her. /Neither of them looks happy about it. /Once lit, she'll burn like a book, /like a book that was ever finished, /like a locked-up library.

He needed to exist only in the present, without guilt, without expectation.

By telling you anything at all I'm at least believing in you, I believe you're there, I believe you into being.

Gardening is not a rational act. What matters is the immersion of the hands in the earth, that ancient ceremony of which the Pope kissingthe tarmac is merely a pallid vestigial remnant.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.