Throughout The Centuries We Have

If There Is A Stage At Which An Individual Life Becomes Truly Adult, It Must Be When One Grasps The Irony In Its Unfolding And Accepts Responsibility For A Life Lived In The Midst Of Such Paradox.

The Writer Works On The Inside And The Critic Works On The Outside. I Don't Know What It Looks Like On The Outside, Sometimes. It's Not That I'm Not Interested-it's Not Where I Live. I Live Inside The Story.

Would The Last Animal, Eating Garbage And Living On The Last Scrap Of Land, His Mate Dead, Would He Still Forgive You?

The Land Retains An Identity Of Its Own, Still Deeper And More Subtle Than We Can Know. Our Obligation Toward It Then Becomes Simple: To Approach With An Uncalculating Mind, With An Attitude Of Regard...be Alert For Its Openings, For That Moment When Something Sacred Reveals Itself Within The Mundane, And You Know The Land Knows You Are There.

If Stories Come To You, Care For Them. And Learn To Give Them Away Where They Are Needed. Sometimes A Person Needs A Story More Than Food To Stay Alive.