Silence, that inspired dealer, takes the day's deck, the life, all in a crazy heap, lays it out, and plays its flawless hand of solitaire, every card in place. Scoops them up, and does it all over again.
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What is remembered is what becomes reality.
Poverty didn't necessarily engender an envy of wealth; sometimes it might beget a passion for decency.
We do not, after all, simply have experience; we are entrusted with it. We must do something--make something--with it. A story, we sense is the only possible habitation for the burden of our witnessing.
People come and go in life, but they never leave your dreams. Once they're in your subconscious, they are immortal.
I come from people who have always been polite enough to feel that nothing has ever happened to them.
The artist's work, it is sometimes said, is to celebrate. But really that is not so; it is to express wonder. And something terrible resides at the heart of wonder. Celebration is social, amenable. Wonder has a chaotic splendor.
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