She couldn’t read his expression. As he started toward her, she recalled the way he’d seemed to glide through the sand the first time she’d ever seen him; she remembered their kiss on the boat dock the night of his sister’s wedding. And she heard again the words she’d said to him on the day they’d said good-bye. She was besieged by a storm of conflicting emotions—desire, regret, longing, fear, grief, love. There was so much to say, yet what could they really begin to say in this awkward setting and with so much time already passed?

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Who did she know in Raleigh who took the time off to fix a house? Or read Whitman or Eliot, finding images in the mind, thoughts of the spirit? Or hunted dawn from the bow of a canoe? These weren't the things that drove society, but she felt they shouldn't be treated as unimportant. They made living worthwhile.

I have a great wife and it's very easy to be romantic because it makes her happy and then my life is so much better when she's happy.

You don't feel the need to talk all the time, do you," she said. He smiled. "No." "Most people don't know how to appreciate silence. They can't help talking." "I talk, I just want to have something to say first.

I have come to realize that destiny can hurt a person as much as it can bless him.

You can't be a writer if you don't write, it's just that simple.