It's a discovery of a story when I write a book, a case of inching ahead on each page and discovering what's beyond in the darkness, beyond where you're writing.

We all have an old knot in the heart we wish to untie.

But we were interested in how our lives could mean something to the past. We sailed into the past.

Half a page--and the morning is already ancient.

That's one of the great sadnesses of any life - knowing what you know now and then remembering what you did not know then.

Men had always been the reciters of poetry in the desert.

He knows that the only way he can accept losing her is if he can continue to hold her or be held by her. If they can somehow nurse each other out of this. Not with a wall.