I guess we're really brothers, aren't we? Don't know what that means, except it means that some of the same things we remember.

Even now, as I write this, I can still feel that tightness. And I want you to feel it--the wind coming off the river, the waves, the silence, the wooded frontier. You're at the bow of a boat on the Rainy River. You're twenty-one years old, you're scared, and there's a hard squeezing pressure in your chest. What would you do? Would you jump? Would you feel pity for yourself? Would you think about your family and your childhood and your dreams and all you're leaving behind? Would it hurt? Would it feel like dying? Would you cry, as I did?

But I do like churches. The way it feels inside. It feels good when you just sit there, like you're in a forest and everything's really quiet, expect there's still this sound you can't hear.

A lot like yesterday, a lot like never.

I guess we're really brothers, aren't we? Don't know what that means, except it means that some of the same things we remember.

My life is storytelling. I believe in stories, in their incredible power to keep people alive, to keep the living alive, and the dead.

you're never more alive than when you're almost dead.