Home is a notion that only nations of the homeless fully appreciate and only the uprooted comprehend.

Salt is added to dried rose petals with the perfume and spices, when we store them away in covered jars, the summers of our past.

I balked at nothing, I was above nothing. Everything had something to teach me.

There is nothing like a doorbell to precipitate the potential into the kinetic.

The life we all live is amateurish and accidental; it begins in accident and proceeds by trial and error toward dubious ends.

Talent can't be taught, but it can be awakened.

I wonder if ever again Americans can have that experience of returning to a home place so intimately known, profoundly felt, deeply loved, and absolutely submitted to? It is not quite true that you can't go home again. I have done it, coming back here. But it gets less likely. We have had too many divorces, we have consumed too much transportation, we have lived too shallowly in too many places.