Of all the conditions we experience, solitude is perhaps the most misunderstood.

You’ve been wondering lately when the moment is that somebody is truly lost to you.

The man had added to his body in a way that was brave and timeless and beyond adornment.

Those partial to drink were hiding faults and dishonesty. They were sloppy souls, even the ones with pleasant manners and fine noses.

I don't like novels that tie everything up in a plot-y way. I always think that's not really true of life, particularly of people in power.

People went through life like well handled jugs, collecting chips and scrapes and stains from wear and tear, from holding and pouring life.

There are stories told to him only at this time of year. Fantastic, magical stories, the old Hollier in the woods finding only three red berries, which peel back in the night to reveal gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh, Christmas in hot deserts, dust-blown countries, the necklace of tears, and the story of the robin.