My daddy's face is a study. Winter moves into it and presides there. His eyes become a cliff of snow threatening to avalanche, his eyebrows bend like black limbs of leafless trees. His skin takes on the pale cheerless yellow of winter sun; for a jaw he has the edges of a snowbound field dotted with stubble; his high forehead is the frozen sweep of the Erie.

I type in one place, but I write all over the house.

I know that my books are worthy, which is separate from me.

Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined.

All important things are hard.

What's the world for you if you can't make it up the way you want it?

Deep, deep trouble. Can't rival the dead for love. Lose every time.