Painting Is The Silence Of Thought And

For The Traveler We See Leaning On His Neighbor Is An Honest And Well-meaning Man And Full Of Melancholy, Like Those Chekhov Characters So Laden With Virtues That They Never Know Success In Life.

When Something Explosive Is Kept Hidden Away, A Tension Builds Within That Must Ultimately Be Released.

Over Time, I Have Come To See The Work Of Literature Less As Narrating The World Than "seeing The World With Words." From The Moment He Begins To Use Words Like Colors In A Painting, A Writer Can Begin To See How Wondrous And Surprising The World Is, And He Breaks The Bones Of Language To Find His Own Voice. For This He Needs Paper, A Pen, And The Optimism Of A Child Looking At The World For The First Time.

‎the Past Is Always An Invented Land.

There's A Lot Of Pride Involved In My Refusal To Believe In God.