Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.

My soul grazes like a lamb on the beauty of an indrawn tide.

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.

We old athletes carry the disfigurements and markings of contests remembered only by us and no one else. Nothing is more lost than a forgotten game.

Walking the streets of Charleston in the late afternoons of August was like walking through gauze or inhaling damaged silk.

In Charleston, more than elsewhere, you get the feeling that the twentieth century is a vast, unconscionable mistake.

(You) don't leave the chicken to watch the feed.