My Soul Grazes Like A Lamb On

A Library Could Show You Everything If You Knew Where To Look.

We Wait For The Tortoises To Come. We Wait For That Lady Who Walks Them. That’s How Art Works. It’s Never A Jackrabbit, Or A Racehorse. It’s The Tortoises That Hold All The Secrets. We’ve Got To Be Patient Enough To Wait For Them.

I Can't Pass A Bookstore Without Slipping Inside, Looking For The Next Book That Will Burn My Hand When I Touch Its Jacket, Or Hand Me Over A Promissory Note Of Such Immense Power That It Contains The Formula That Will Change Everything About Me.

(you) Don't Leave The Chicken To Watch The Feed.

Charleston Has A Landscape That Encourages Intimacy And Partisanship. I Have Heard It Said That An Inoculation To The Sights And Smells Of The Carolina Lowcountry Is An Almost Irreversible Antidote To The Charms Of Other Landscapes, Other Alien Geographies. You Can Be Moved Profoundly By Other Vistas, By Other Oceans, By Soaring Mountain Ranges, But You Can Never Be Seduced. You Can Even Forsake The Lowcountry, Renounce It For Other Climates, But You Can Never Completely Escape The Sensuous, Semitropical Pull Of Charleston And Her Marshes.