The artist's work, it is sometimes said, is to celebrate. But really that is not so; it is to express wonder. And something terrible resides at the heart of wonder. Celebration is social, amenable. Wonder has a chaotic splendor.

French was the only language we had in common, and even that was like a dialect we had picked up at a rummage sale, rusty and missing a lot of essential parts.

Maybe being oneself is always an acquired taste.

I could tell you stories-if only stories could tell what I have in me to tell.

You can’t put much on paper before you betray your secret self, try as you will to keep things civil.

The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.

People come and go in life, but they never leave your dreams. Once they're in your subconscious, they are immortal.