There is always a time to make right what is wrong.

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.

Before a secret is told, one can often feel the weight of it in the atmosphere.

What always seems miraculous is when aesthetic necessities yield an insight which otherwise I would have missed.

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.

The mind can forget what the body, defined by each breath, subject to the heart beating, does not.

This earth is my sister; I love her daily grace, her silent daring, and how loved I am. How we admire this strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered, all that we know: We are stunned by this beauty, and I do not forget: what she is to me, what I am to her.