Suddenly It Was Fall, The Season Of

To Mourn Is To Wonder At The Strangeness That Grief Is Not Written All Over Your Face In Bruised Hieroglyphics. And It's Also To Feel, Quite Powerfully, That You're Not Allowed To Descend Into The Deepest Fathom Of Your Grief - That To Do So Would Be Taboo Somehow.

Like My Mother Before Me, I Have Always Been A Good Speller.

I'm Not Much Like My Mother; That Role Falls To My Brothers, Who Have More Of Her Blithe And Freewheeling Spirit.

Time Doesn’t Obey Our Commands. You Cannot Make It Holy Just Because It Is Disappearing.

Our Minds Are Mysterious; Our Conscious Brain Is Like A Ship On A Sea That Is Obscure To Us.