“I love the solitude of reading. I love the deep dive into someone else's story, the delicious ache of a last page.”

“We dropped our troubles into the lap of the storyteller, and they turned into someone else's.”

“I'm writing mostly to thank you for livingyou eighty yearsand to tell you I love youand think of you often.”

“I want to be someone making music/with my coming.”

“To know the difference,you must run this mountain without pause. In the evening or the afternoon, you must cross the first fields wakingto your footsteps, stormwashed at the foothills.In the evening or the afternoon, in the closing of a shadowline, you must read aloud the reddened last words of this canyon's leaves to the trees that clap their hands.”

“When they say Don't I know you? say no.When they invite you to the partyremember what parties are likebefore answering.Someone telling you in a loud voicethey once wrote a poem.Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.Then reply.If they say we should get together.say why? It's not that you don't love them any more.You're trying to remember somethingtoo important to forget.Trees.The monastery bell at twilight.Tell them you have a new project.It will never be finished. When someone recognizes you in a grocery storenod briefly and become a cabbage.When someone you haven't seen in ten yearsappears at the door,don't start singing him all your new songs.You will never catch up.Walk around feeling like a leaf. Know you could tumble any second.Then decide what to do with your time.”

“For you who came so far; for you who held out, wearing a black scarf to signify grief; for you who believe true love can find you amidst this atlas of tears linking one town to its own memory of mortar, when it was still a dream to be built and people moved there, believing, and someone with sky and birds in his heart said this would be a good place for a park.”