He Had A Thousand-year-old Stare.

I Am Part Of What She Thinks Is Her Illness, A Symptom Of Which She Thinks She Has Been Cured. She, On The Other Hand, Is What I Was Looking For.

Love Won't Be Tampered With, Love Won't Go Away. Push It To One Side And It Creeps To The Other.

I Have Always Kept Notebooks And I Go Back To Them Over And Over. They Are My Compost Pile Of Ideas.

...grandpa's Mind Had Left Us, Gone Wild And Wary. When I Walked With Him I Could Feel How Strange It Was. His Thoughts Swam Between Us, Hidden Under Rocks, Disappearing In Weeds, And I Was Fishing For Them, Dangling My Own Words Like Baits And Lures.

It Didn't Occur To Me That My Books Would Be Widely Read At All, And That Enabled Me To Write Anything I Wanted To. And Even Once I Realized That They Were Being Read, I Still Wrote As If I Were Writing In Secret. That's How One Has To Write Anyway--in Secret.