I Spend Most Of My Time Writing.

Death Is The Least Civilized Rite Of Passage.

At Times The Whole Sky Was Ringed In Shooting Points And Puckers Of Light Gathering And Falling, Pulsing, Fading, Rhythmical As Breathing. All Of A Piece. As If The Sky Were A Pattern Of Nerves And Our Thought And Memories Traveled Across It. As If The Sky Were One Gigantic Memory For Us All.

He Had A Thousand-year-old Stare.

Freedom, I Found Is Not Only In The Running But In The Heart, The Mind, The Hands.

To Be Of Mixed Blood Is A Great Gift For A Writer. I Have One Foot On Tribal Lands And One Foot In Middle-class Life.