What kind of weirdo makes cheese? It's too hard to imagine, too homespun, too something. We're so alienated from the creation of even ordinary things we eat or use, each one seems to need its own publ...
To think is not always to see.
This will be Great Mam's last spring. Her last June apples. Her last fresh roasting ears from the garden.
They rock against each other, holding on, and the birds in the forest raise their voices to drown out the secret of creation.
The past is all we know of the future.
The 2-week delay of her letters had caused me to keep a distrustful eye on Hallie, like a star so many light years away it could have exploded long ago while we still watched its false shine.
Silence has many advantages…I write and draw in my notebook and I read anything I please.
She would just be catching up when I'd go again, swimming farther out into life because I still hadn't found a rock to stand on.
Perhaps growing up meant we put our knives away and feigned ignorance of the damage.
Our childhood had passed over into history overnight. The transition was unnoticed by anyone but ourselves.
It's monstrous, what one person will do to another.
It was a rule of marriage: the more desperately you needed alone time with your spouse, the quicker you’d spoil it with a blowout. When
If humanity survives long enough to understand what he really was, they can dig him up and put on display the grandiose depravity of the twentieth century.
I'm a scientist who thinks it wise to enter the doors of creation not with a lion tamer's whip and chair, but with the reverence humankind has traditionally summoned for entering places of worship: a...
I think most people are the same. Until they’ve gone somewhere.
I lost a child, she said, meeting Lusa's eyes directly. I thought I wouldn't live through it. But you do. You learn to love the place somebody leaves behind for you.
I have long relied on the comforts of martyrdom.
Hunger of the body is altogether different from the shallow, daily hunger of the belly. Those who have known this kind of hunger cannot entirely love, ever again, those who have not.
High fashion has the shelf life of potato salad. And when past its prime, it is similarly deadly.
He needs to go rub his soul against life.