...you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.

Fiction, maybe art in general, is a tentative, uncertain enterprise; it's not science, it's an exploration, but you never find much in the way of answers.

What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.

The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, replaying itself over and over.

Life is never all one thing. It bounces around. Certainly, my own life has.

Each of us, I suppose needs his illusions. Life after death. A maker of planets. A woman to love, a man to hate. Something sacred. But what a waste.

The world shrieks and sinks talons into our hearts. This we call memory.