Anger Is Its Own Excuse And Its

Laughter Nibbled At My Lips Like Tiny Fish In Warm Water.

It's Unimaginable To Me That I Wouldn't Write, But It's Very Imaginable That I Won't Write For A Little While.

I Don't Know If I Would Do Sequels. I Almost Feel Like When I'm Done With Them, They're Going To Have To Find Their Own Way.

I Think We All Get Too Caught Up In Doing Instead Of Just Being Sometimes.

That Sinuous Southern Life, That Oblique And Slow And Complicated Old Beauty, That Warm Thick Air And Blood Warm Sea, That Place Of Mists And Languor And Fragrant Richness.