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

My attraction to story is a ceaseless current that runs through the center of me. My inexhaustible ardor for reading seems connected to my hunger for storylines that show up in both books and in the great tumbling chaos of life.

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

I learned that if I could read, I could cook. I surprised myself I like it.

If not for sports, I do not think my father would have ever talked to me.

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

The only way I could endure being a coward was if I was the only one who knew it.