In the long dusks of summer we walked the suburban streets through scents of maple and cut grass, waiting for something to happen.

His ambition was to insert his dreams into the world, and if they were the wrong dreams, then he would dream them in solitude.

We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Stories, like conjuring tricks, are invented because history is inadequate for our dreams.

But what struck me was the book-madness of the place--books lay scattered across the unmade bed and the top of a battered-looking desk, books stood in knee-high piles on the floor, books were crammed sideways and right side up in a narrow bookcase that rose higher than my head and leaned dangerously from the wall, books sat in stacks on top of a dingy dresser. The closet door was propped open by a pile of books, and from beneath the bed a book stuck out beside the toe of a maroon slipper.

All words are masks and the lovelier they are, the more they are meant to conceal.

I’m pleased by anything in myself that strikes me as not myself.