Planes are my foxhole. I'm always on my knees in them.

We do not, after all, simply have experience; we are entrusted with it. We must do something--make something--with it. A story, we sense is the only possible habitation for the burden of our witnessing.

We only store in memory images of value. To write about one's life is to live it twice, and the second time is both spiritual and historical.

The world is full of mystery but it must not be choked with secrets: we must talk to one another.

Poverty didn't necessarily engender an envy of wealth; sometimes it might beget a passion for decency.

landscape, that vast still life, invites description, not narration. It is lyric. It has no story: it is the beloved, and asks only to be contemplated.

Here, in memory, we live and die.