... the wing of a fly is proof enough of the existence of God for me.

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.

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

Teach them the quiet words of kindness, to live beyond themselves. Urge them toward excellence, drive them toward gentleness, pull them deep into yourself, pull them upward toward manhood, but softly like an angel arranging clouds. Let your spirit move through them softly.

He was one of those rare men who are capable of being fully in love only once in their lives.

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

I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.