When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. A miracle contradicts the will of earth.
When did it come to Davy Land that exile is a country of shifting borders, hard to quit yet hard to endure, no matter your wide shoulders, no matter your toughened heart?
Whenever I didn't know what to write next, I put a swift river in front of his horse and sent the two of them across!
Where do you think you’re going? Dr. Nokes demanded…. What do you have for directions? And Dad… said, I have the substance of things hoped for. I have the anticipation of things unseen
Why is it our failures only show us more clearly the people we are failing?
Yes, yes sir—routine is worry’s sly assassin.
You are no failure, on a river. The water moves regardless - for all it cares, you might be a minnow or a tadpole, a turtle on a beavered log. You might be nothing at all.
You can embark on new and steeper versions of your old sin, you know, and cry tears doing it that are genuine as any.
You can embark on new and steeper versions of your old sins, you know, and cry tears while doing it that are genuine as any.
You can’t explain grace, anyway, especially when it arrives almost despite yourself. I didn’t even ask for it, yet somehow it breached and began to work.
You can’t kill history. You can’t shoot it with a bullet and watch it recede into whatever lies outside of memory. History is tougher than that—if it’s going to die, it has to die on its own
You know how it is—you grow up with a story all your life, it can transmute into something you neither question nor particularly value. It’s why we have such bad luck learning from mistakes.
You never like it to happen, for something as hopeful and sudden as a January thaw to come to an end, but end it does, and then you want to have some quilts around.
You said yourself they didn’t hurt your girl. Waiting, Davy asked, How many times does a dog have to bite before you put him down?
Dudgeon
Is worry’s sly assassin.
It’s difficult to do productive work and fume simultaneously—the labor dissipates your righteous steam—so
One of her recent letters asks, Is it hubris to believe we all live epics? (Perhaps it is, but I suspect she’s not actually counting on me for an answer.)
Quixotically.
Telegram saying, Existence is great but don’t read so much into it.
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