How terrible it was to love people when you could not really share their lives!
The dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young.
Whatever is felt upon the page without being specifically named there โ that, one might say, is created.
The miracles of the church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.
It is cremated youth. It is all yours--no one gave it to you.
One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away.