“The only thing left to her keeping were a bloody old rag and a creased photograph of the ocean which she held pressed to the hollow of her slender throat and had thrashed for and bit hands to protect like a madwoman risen from sleep to in her unformed state between wake and dream reproach the world tenfold.”

“I think the river be showin a person the way his mind's supposed to work... You ain't never see a river stop and think too long about nothin. It don't never twist and squirrel around what lays in its path, exceptin when the thing is too big to go rightly through it. Then it goes around. Gently. But otherwise, it just goes and keeps goin. Over and under and through all things again like there ain't no need to lay mind to it. Like it knows they's always to be there at some point. There ain't no dallying for the river, you see. No steppin back to observe. Just pure flowin and goin and never thinkin twice.”

“They watched the elk gallop and mull about like a new texture being laid, and their presence against the mountains in that high sweet grass was a trellis alive and for a moment it seemed as if the world was reinventing itself and the boy was filled with an inexplicable hope.”

“Then he turned the pebbles over in his hardened fingers, remembering the only words in the way of wisdom his father had ever given him. The land is your bones and your bones is the land. He thought about that, looking long and long into the coming night, a light snow falling hushed and calm in the dark open. Before putting his foot in the stirrup he leaned down and scattered the pebbles back onto the earth but for one nugget that he pushed into his pocket and squeezed until it was as his heart felt. Dust.”

“But usually not. Usually she thinks of the path to his house, whether deer had eaten the tops of the fiddleheads, why they don't eat the peppermint saprophytes sprouting along the creek; or she visualizes the approach to the cabin, its large windows, the fuchsias in front of it where Anna's hummingbirds always hover with dirty green plumage and jeweled throats. Sometimes she thinks about her dream, the one in which her mother wakes up with no hands. The cabin smells of oil paint, but also of pine. The painter's touch is sexual and not sexual, as she herself is....When the memory of that time came to her, it was touched by strangeness because it formed no pattern with the other events in her life. It lay in her memory like one piece of broken tile, salmon-coloured or the deep green of wet leaves, beautiful in itself but unusable in the design she was making”

“Before taking her into the library, my wife told me she was an old friend in a marriage crisis. A fatuous lie; at her age there are no crises left in marriage, only acceptance and extraction. (General Villiers)”

“A four year old girl was overheard whispering in her newborn baby brother's ear: "Baby," she whispers, "tell me what God sounds like. I'm starting to forget." -- Between the Dreaming and the Coming True”