All good things come by grace, and grace comes by art, and art does not come easy.

Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

The world is full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the further one gets from Missoula, Montana.

...life every now and then becomes literature...as if life had been made and not happened.

I knew that, when needed, mountains would move for me.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

Slowly we became silent, and silence itself if an enemy to friendship.