There are significant moments in everyone's day that can make literature. That's what you ought to write about.

And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

The places where water comes together with other water. Those places stand out in my mind like holy places.

Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

We knew our days were numbered. We had fouled up our lives and we were getting ready for a shake-up.

The smooth stones you pick up and examine under the moon's light have been made blue from the sea. Next morning when you pull them from your trouser pocket, they are still blue.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.