We keep secrets from ourselves that all along we know.

I love that moment in writing when language falls short. There is something more there. A larger body. Even by the failure of words I begin to detect its dimensions. As I work the prose, shift the verbs, look for new adjectives, a different rhythm, syntax, something new begins to come to the surface.

Telling a story of illness, one pulls a thread through a narrow opening flanked on one side by shame and the other by trivia.

What is buried in the past of one generation falls to the next to claim.

Far more frightening than the thought of dying was the experience of erasure already occurring in my life. My fear of becoming someone who did not count.

Society, like nature, is one body, really.

I think artists can go to a level of vision that can often save us from a situation which seems to have no solution whatsoever.