I think I learned about the relationship between books and life from Margaret Mitchell.

Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.

But even her demons she invested with inordinate beauty, consecrated them with the dignity of her attention.

Writing poetry and reading books causes brain damage.

The safe places could only be visited; they could only grant a momentary intuition of sanctuary. The moment always came when we had to return to our real life to face the wounds and grief indigenous to our homr by the river.

Every athlete learns by theft and mimicry.

Red Hook Road made me happy, and happy to be alive. It took me out of my home on the coast of South Carolina, placed me in the town along Red hook Road, and changed me the way good books always do.