“Words are the closest any of us can come to making something from nothing at all.”

“She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half.Then a chapter.Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Führer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better.What good were the words?She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?”

“When words don't come easy, I make do with silence and find something in nothing." ~ Strider Marcus Jones, Poet”

“So you’re an atheist and you say, “Well how do you know there’s a God?” So what is there, nothing? So nothing created you? So you believe in nothing? Therefore, you believe in something – but that’s nothing. You believe in nothingness. I believe in God. That’s all. How can you believe in nothingness? How is it possible to believe in nothingness? How can something come from nothing? It’s a violation of all the laws of physics! Something cannot come from nothing. It violates physical science, biological science, and theological science. It violates all the laws of reason! It violates all the laws of nonreason.”

“Because it is occasionally possible, just for brief moments, to find the words that will unlock the doors of all those many mansions inside the head and express something - perhaps not much, just something - of the crush of information that presses in on us from the way a crow flies over and the way a man walks and the look of a street and from what we did one day a dozen years ago. Words that will express something of the deep complexity that makes us precisely the way we are, from the momentary effect of the barometer to the force that created men distinct from trees. Something of the inaudible music that moves us along in our bodies from moment to moment like water in a river. Something of the spirit of the snowflake in the water of the river. Something of the duplicity and the relativity and the merely fleeting quality of all this. Something of the almighty importance of it and something of the utter meaninglessness. And when words can manage something of this, and manage it in a moment, of time, and in that same moment, make out of it all the vital signature of a human being - not of an atom, or of a geometrical diagram, or of a heap of lenses - but a human being, we call it poetry.”

“Marriage may be the closest thing to Heaven or Hell any of us will know on this earth.”