"But sometimes, unexpectedly, grief pounded over me in waves that left me gasping; and when the waves washed back, I found myself looking out over a brackish wreck which was illumined in a light so lucid, so heartsick and empty, that I could hardly remember that the world had ever been anything but dead."

"and from a thousand miles of soft memories and bad haikus away I let you pull me in, all warm and dry like a towel at the beach, which we lifted like that postcard From the Shade Garden- You are still everywhere, I wish you were here"

I hope that someday when I am gone, someone somewhere, picks my soul up off of these pages and thinks, "I would have loved her."

Perhaps it's good for one to suffer. Can an artist do anything if he's happy? Would he ever want to do anything? What is art, after all, but a protest against the horrible inclemency of life?