Love is or it ain't. Thin love ain't love at all.

Word-work is sublime... because it is generative; it makes meaning that secures our difference, our human difference-the way in which we are like no other life. We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.

Listen up. Let me tell you something. A man ain’t a goddamn ax. Chopping, hacking, busting every goddamn minute of the day. Things get to him. Things he can’t chop down because they’re inside.

I don't think a female running a house is a problem, a broken family. It's perceived as one because of the notion that a head is a man.

And I am all the things I have ever loved: scuppernong wine, cool baptisms in silent water, dream books and number playing.

Hospitality is gold in this City; you have to be clever to figure out how to be welcoming and defensive at the same time. When to love something and when to quit. If you don't know how, you can end up out of control or controlled by some outside thing like that hard case last winter.

You free. Nothing and nobody is obliged to save you but you.