There in the center of that silence was not eternity but the death of time and a loneliness so profound the word itself had no meaning.

We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.

I have the wonderful pleasure of finishing the book and closing it. And I don't read them later.

Don't ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn't fall in love, I rose in it.

...a habit that had become one of those necessary things for the night... surely a body-friendly if not familiar-lying next to you. Someone whose touch is a reassurance, not an affront or a nuissance. Whose heavy breathing neither enrages nor discusts you, but amuses you like that of a cherished pet.

New York is the last true city.

In Ohio seasons are theatrical. Each one enters like a prima donna, convinced its performance is the reason the world has people in it.