We even talked like Hemingway characters, though in travesty, as if to deny our discipleship: That is your bed, and it is a good bed, and you must make it and you must make it well. Or: Today is the day of the meatloaf. The meatloaf is swell. It is swell but when it is gone the not-having meatloaf will be tragic and the meatloaf man will not come anymore.

Most of us dont live lives that lend themselves to novelistic expression, because our lives are so fragmented.

Perhaps that is why the novel flourished in England. You had these communities that would stay put and people would see one another all the time and cause one another to change and have the opportunity to observe the changes over time.

The beauty of a fragment is that it still supports the hope of brilliant completeness.

The human heart is a dark forest.

Fearlessness in those without power is maddening to those who have it.

Want! You must want something. What do you want?