The repeated lies become history, but they don't necessarily become the truth.
People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self.
One corner to another. One more crack in the pavement. That’s the way we all walk: the more we have to occupy our minds the better.
Oh, the mind itself is a deep, deep well. Lower me down and let me touch water.
Let it be. Silly song, really. You let it be, it returns. There's the truth. You let it be, it drags you to the ground. You let it be, it crawls up your walls.
It was that time of the century when the idea of a gentleman had almost become myth. The Great War had concussed the world. The unbearable news of sixteen million deaths rolled off the great metal dru...
I suppose one finally learns, after much searching, that we really only belong to ourselves.
I suppose I've always known that it's hard to be just one person. the key is in the door and it can always be opened.
Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in d...
A writer is an explorer. She knows she wants to get somewhere, but she doesn’t know if the somewhere even exists yet. It is still to be created. A Galápagos of the imagination. A whole new theory of w...
It was necessary to love silence, but before you could love silence you had to have noise.
A priest? I said. --A monk or some such. One of those worker guys. Liberation theowhateveritis. --Theologian, said the other. --One of those guys who thinks that Jesus was on welfare.
What Corrigan wanted was a fully believable God, one you could findin the grime of the everyday...he consoled himself with the fact that, in the real world, when he looked closely into the darkness he...
Truth: When criticized you go berserk, but in your defense remember that it is those who calmly listen who never change.
She had that emigrant’s sadness—she would never go back to her old country—it was gone in more senses than one—but she was forever gazing homewards anyway.
Rather, it was the manshape that held them there, their necks craned, torn between the promise of doom and the disappointment of the ordinary.
Even if people laughed at the notion of goodness, if they found it sentimental, or nostalgic, it didn't matter -- it was none of those things, he said, and it had to be fought for.
Corrigan told me once that Christ was quite easy to understand. Hewent where He was supposed to go. He stayed where He was needed. Hetook little or nothing along, a pair of sandals, a bit of a shirt,...