Society, like nature, is one body, really.

But still, the other voice, the intuitive, returns, like grass forcing its way through concrete.

And if the professional rapist is to be separated from the average dominant heterosexual (male), it may be mainly a quantitative difference.

I am not so different in my history of abandonment from anyone else after all. We have all been split away from the earth, each other, ourselves.

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.

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.

The hard surface of the stone is impervious to nothing in the end. The heat of the sun leaves evidence of daylight. Each drop of rain changes the form; even the wind and the air itself, invisible to our eyes, etches its presence. … All history is taken in by stones.