For a moment she'd wondered if the seal around her sockets were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied in important ways from cry to cry.

Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.

What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?

What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?

Shall I project a world?

If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.

What North Europe thinks of as its history is actually quite provincial and of limited interest. Different sorts of Christian killing each other, and that's about it.