Speculation Can Be More Gentle, Can Take

A Story Is Not Like A Road To Follow... It's More Like A House. You Go Inside And Stay There For A While, Wandering Back And Forth And Settling Where You Like And Discovering How The Room And Corridors Relate To Each Other, How The World Outside It Altered By Being Viewed From These Windows.

Peoples Lives, In Jubilee As Elsewhere, Were Dull, Simple, Amazing, Unfathomable-deep Caves Paved With Kitchen Linoleum. . . . What I Wanted [to Write Down] Was Every Last Thing, Every Layer Of Speech And Thought, Stroke Of Light On Bark Or Walls, Every Smell, Pothole, Pain, Crack, Delusion, Held Still And Held Together-radiant, Everlasting.

Love Removes The World For You, And Just As Surely When It's Going Well As When It's Going Badly.

I Can't Play Bridge. I Don't Play Tennis. All Those Things That People Learn, And I Admire, There Hasn't Seemed Time For. But What There Is Time For Is Looking Out The Window.

Memory Is The Way We Keep Telling Ourselves Our Stories - And Telling Other People A Somewhat Different Version Of Our Stories.