Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

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

Perhaps sound is only an insanity of silence, a mad gibber of empty space grown fearful of listening to itself and hearing nothing.

So imagine a fire going -- wood snapping the way it does when it’s a little green — the wind rattling the windows behind the curtains -- and one of those Chopin melodies that feel like sorrow and ecstasy all mixed together pouring from the keys -- and you have my idea of happiness. Or just reading, reading and lamplight, the sound of pages turning. And so you dare to be happy. You do that thing. You dare.

God pity the poor novelist.

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

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