Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.

...when the words pour out of you just right, you understand that these sentences are all part of a river flowing out of your own distant, hidden ranges, and all words become the dissolving snow that feeds your mountain streams forever. The language locks itself in the icy slopes of our own high passes, and it is up to us, the writers, to melt the glaciers within us. When these glaciers break off, we get to call them novels, the changelings of our burning spirits, our life's work.

The water was pure and cold and came out of the Apennines tasting like snow melted in the hands of a pretty girl.

She had so mastered the strategies of camouflage that her own history had seemed a series of well-placed mirrors that kept her hidden from herself.

Paranoia has a sharper taste if the danger is real.

Good coaching is good teaching and nothing else.

I wrote to explain my own life to myself, stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.