I Know Only Enough Of God To

The Interior Life Is Often Stupid.

Cruelty Is A Mystery, And A Waste Of Pain.

At Its Best, The Sensation Of Writing Is That Of Any Unmerited Grace. It Is Handed To You, But Only If You Look For It.

Write About Winter In The Summer.

I Had Hopes For My Rough Edges. I Wanted To Use Them As A Can Opener, To Cut Myself A Hole In The World's Surface And Exit Through It.