Life is calmness with squabbling, accumulating traditions and self-consciousness. elaborate meals, medicine, law,pretty pictures unspoiled,rocking the cradle and holding the hammer, impressive skies of gray and blue, believing in what we can’t settle, the mystery...

I never trust a man who tucks in his shirt by choice or neglects coffee in favor of tea.

The lonely, wistful revisionism of memories is as gratingly repetitive as snow and ice in Canada. I avoid them both at all costs – memories and Canada.

American dream,a spouse,a brace of children,cuddly pets,coffee-table books,rusted skeleton keys,plastic cauliflower bags,business cards of business-card printers,a mound of used airmail envelopes. Old house on moving day,all echoes and loneliness.

The stony silence of death, trapped by the original gravity of our sins,and the perpetuity of a long, leisurely yawn, a world where blood and bone no longer matter.

Life, perhaps less a document than an impression, conveyed through partial glances, stream-of-consciousness juxtapositions, unpredictable rhythms, a collage of sound, a conscientious diarist, a career of blackmail and scandal culminated in murder, a blind man...

Rum is tonic that clarifies the vision,and sets things in true perspective.

At what point do they believe what’s been branded on their skin instead of just knowing who they are on the inside.

Happiness is a habit,it’s more than fleeting,more than a disintegrating lozenge.