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Journeysexpand_moreNo one perhaps has ever felt passionately towards a pencil.
All my life I have noted that my thinking was atavistic, totemic.
Up there there’s not a sound except for the wind and the buzzing of bees.
The horror of the waste appalls me. This beauty. This habitation of dream.
What better place to write the great American novel than North Africa?
I grip the handlebar and pin my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable crash.
She pulls quickly on her cigarette and blows it at me through the phone.
“If the world is becoming a void, the artist must fill it with his soul.”
The snow on the windshield a tunnel of wings my friend is driving through.
They drink hard liquor and growl about which musicians are hot.
I was once very brave. Once I was very brave. I was very brave once.
My father was at an awful disadvantage in a sport where cunning is a virtue.
“I am not in the least fond of Venice. I should like to go far away!”
A photo essay on hope in the wake of the devastating Bosnian War.
It was good they were Africans, she thought. It meant less danger.
We were hurtling close to a hundred miles an hour through the dark.
Stopping it, Cye knows, is like stopping a tsunami with a tennis racket.
In that great darkness could I explain anything, anything at all.
A gift tells you who you are and what you’re not in the eyes of others.
He was nervous and ill at ease, but my bearing seemed to reassure him.
“I can’t hold it any longer. I have to pee,” I finally confessed to Viola.
However hard I trudge and search I cannot find the hills I have climbed.
They caught those few of us left unclaimed by the one emotion, or the other.
I don’t think I was very frightened. I was simply hungry for home.
The students usually didn’t look up to see who was serving them.
When I saw her, I was witness and weapon both, charging at her.
Each harbored a sense that a family of three was not a real family.
The goose cannot see the North but knows exactly where it lies.
When I cried the tears felt so ineffective next to the ocean.
