You can never do enough for the dead. You search around for comfort but there is no comfort; there never was and never will be. There is only a gradual wearing away of the sharp edges, so that you don't feel ambushed at every turn, as if you saw the dead suddenly rounding the corner.

Silence is a way of saying: we do not have to entertain each other; we are okay as we are.

We don't know who we are until we see what we can do.

The English inn stands permanently planted at the confluence of the roads of history, memory, and romance.

Talking's just a nervous habit.

You can't be blocked if you just keep on writing words. Any words. People who get 'blocked' make the mistake of thinking they have to write good words.

An idyllic childhood is probably illusion.