“Now faith is not what wehereafter have we have aworld resting on nothingRest was never more thanabstract since it is emptyreality we cannot escape”

“We are all clothed with fleece of sheep I keep saying as ifI were singing as these words do. Throw a shawl over meso you won't be afraid to sleep. I have already shown thatspace is God.”

“Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn’t either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But Henry James is – profoundly so. Because he is tender. The tenderness is there in the structure of the sentence. He knows the way the poor and the dead are forgotten by the living, and he cannot allow that to happen. So he keeps on writing for them, for the dead, as if they were children to be sheltered and loved, never abandoned.”

“we that were wood when that wide wood was in a physical Universe playing with words bark be my limbs my hair be leaf Bride be my bow my lyre my quiver ”

“God was true everything wasa mother's role in childhoodSomeone was in that gardeneach knowing the other to beentirely inasmuch what eachbelieved or what confessed forcordial confinement is God'sglory each seed every word”

“We have often had this particular exchange about climate and landscape and why we both feel so lonely here uprooted. It was what each of us had wanted of course.Besides wanting to experience a place we hated, we wanted to be insomniacs and loners, losers and drop-outs. To know the sky was the only location of meaning and joy left to us.”

“We all start out thinking that there is such a thing as perfection and that there's something wrong with us if we settle for less. First we won't eat the food with the brown spots. Then we hate ourselves because we have our own brown spots—pimples or ears that are too big or legs that are too skinny.”