And who knows-but maybe that's what's waiting for us at the end of the journey, a majesty unimaginable until the very moment we find ourselves walking through the doors of it, what we find ourselves g...
And the strange thing was: I knew that most people didn't see her as I did--if anything, found her a bit odd-looking wth her off-kilter walk and her spooky redhead pallor. For whatever dumb reason I h...
And that’s why I’ve chosen to write these pages as I’ve written them. For only by stepping into the middle zone, the polychrome edge between truth and untruth, is it tolerable to be here and writing t...
And that was it: infinite loop; no alt-tab out. You could force close, shut down the computer, start all over and run it again, and the game would still lock up and freeze at the same place. Where's P...
And that was fine. I didn’t matter much in the scheme of things and Martin didn’t either. We were easily forgotten. It was a social and moral lesson, if nothing else. But for all foreseeable time to c...
And it’s a temptation for any intelligent person, and especially for perfectionists such as the ancients and ourselves, to try to murder the primitive, emotive, appetitive self. But that is a mistake.
And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn't touch.
And if what she’d wanted had been impossible from the start, still there was a certain lonely comfort in the fact that she’d known it was impossible and had gone ahead and done it anyway.
An invisible, bedrock rightness that reassured me just as it was reassuring to know that far away, whales swarm untroubled in Baltic Waters and monks in arcane time zones chanted ceaselessly for the s...
All those years I’d drifted along too glassy and insulated for any kind of reality to push through: a delirium which had spun me along on its slow, relaxed wave since childhood, high and lying on the...
All her grace was in her vagueness. Her voice was soft, her manner languid, her features blurred and dreamy.
A guesstimate? prompted the man Enrique. About your dad? Ballpark will do, the Korean lady said.
A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to...
A goodbye at the gate, said Hobie. He seemed to be talking partly to himself. That's what he would have wanted. The parting glimpse, the death haiku - he wouldn't have liked to leave without stopping...
When in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: Be yourself. Follow your heart.Only here's what I really, r...
No matter how hard I tried to wish him out of the picture—for there he always was, in my hands and my voice and my walk...
As we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn't touch.
And yet isn't it always the inappropriate thing, the thing that doesn't quite work, that's oddly the dearest?
We don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.
. . Maybe even if we're not always so glad to be here it's our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open.