A Man In A Desert Can Hold

She Had Lived In That House Fourteen Years, And Every Year She Had Demanded Of John That She Be Given A Pet Of Some Strange Exotic Breed. Not That She Did Not Have Enough Animals. She Had Collected Several Wild And Broken Animals That, In A Way, Had Become Exotic By Their Breaking. Their Roof Would Have Collapsed From The Number Of Birds Who Might Have Lived There If The Desert Hadn't Killed Three- Quarters Of Those That Tried To Cross It. Still Every Animal That Came Within A Certain Radius Of That House Was Given A Welcome-the Tame, The Half Born, The Wild, The Wounded.

Tell Me, Is It Possible To Love Someone Who Is Not As Smart As You Are? ...but Isn't It Important For You To Think She Is Smarter Than You In Order To Fall In Love? ...why Is That? Because We Want To Know Things, How The Pieces Fit. Talkers Seduce, Words Direct Us Into Corners. We Want More Than Anything To Grow And Change. Brave New World.

One Of The Things That Happens In Novels It's Almost Like A Continual Debate With Yourself. That's Why You're Writing The Book. It's Why You Create Characters: So You Can Argue With Yourself.

Water Is The Exile, Carried Back In Cans And Flasks, The Ghost Between Your Hands And Your Mouth.

A Love Story Is Not About Those Who Lost Their Heart But About Those Who Find That Sullen Inhabitant Who, When It Is Stumbled Upon, Means The Body Can Fool No One, Can Fool Nothing—not The Wisdom Of Sleep Or The Habit Of Social Graces. It Is A Consuming Of Oneself And The Past.