I still write in long hand. I type like a chimpanzee.
... silence (can) be the most eloquent form of lying.
I had come to a place where I was meant to be. I don't mean anything so prosaic as a sense of coming home. This was different, very different. It was like arriving at a place much safer than home.
A story untold could be the one that kills you.
Writing is the only way I have to explain my own life to myself.
I can't pass a bookstore without slipping inside, looking for the next book that will burn my hand when I touch its jacket, or hand me over a promissory note of such immense power that it contains the formula that will change everything about me.