I Knew Every Raindrop By Its Name.

Death Is The Mother Of Beauty.

When He Was Dry, He Believed It Was Alcohol He Needed, But When He Had A Few Drinks In Him, He Knew It Was Something Else, Possibly A Woman; And When He Had It All -- Cash, Booze, And A Wife -- He Couldn't Be Distracted From The Great Emptiness That Was Always Falling Through Him And Never Hit The Ground.

Think Of Being Curled Up And Floating In A Darkness. Even If You Could Think, Even If You Had An Imagination, Would You Ever Imagine Its Opposite, This Miraculous World The Asian Taoists Call The "ten Thousand Things"? And If The Darkness Just Got Darker? And Then You Were Dead? What Would You Care? How Would You Eve Know The Difference?

What's Funny About Jesus' Son Is That I Never Even Wrote That Book, I Just Wrote It Down. I Would Tell These Stories And People Would Say, You Should Write These Things Down.

All His Life Robert Grainier Would Remember Vividly The Burned Valley At Sundown, The Most Dreamlike Business He’d Ever Witnessed Waking—the Brilliant Pastels Of The Last Light Overhead, Some Clouds High And White, Catching Daylight From Beyond The Valley, Others Ribbed And Gray And Pink, The Lowest Of Them Rubbing The Peaks Of Bussard And Queen Mountains; And Beneath This Wondrous Sky The Black Valley, Utterly Still, The Train Moving Through It Making A Great Noise But Unable To Wake This Dead World.