What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.
The leaf fall of his words, the stained glass hues of his moods, the rust in his voice, the smoke in his mouth, his breath on my vision like human breath blinding a mirror.
The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase heard.
The dream was always running ahead of one. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
The creative personality never remains fixed on the first world it discovers. It never resigns itself to anything.