Comely was the town by the curving river that they dismantled in a year's time. Beautiful was Colleton in her last spring as she flung azaleas like a girl throwing rice at a desperate wedding. In dazzling profusion, Colleton ripened in a gauze of sweet gardens and the town ached beneath a canopy of promissory fragrance.

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.

Laughter is the only strategy that has ever worked at all for me when my world is falling apart.

I wrote to explain my own life to myself, stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.

Writing has never been that simple for me.

I've always believed that dreams were both the love letters and the hate mail of the subconscious.

Man wonders but God decides When to kill the Prince of Tides.