She bent and placed a single daisy upon the grave. A simple white daisy. The plainest of flowers, perhaps the purest, Elspeth thought. It had cost next to nothing at all, and perhaps that was...

Writing is a lifelong disease. Once contracted, the only prescription is to write constantly in whatever form to express your condition, in whatever construction to carry your words beyond you.

What would it be like to feel so attached, so intrinsically bonded, so protective of one’s own best connection with time and the ages, of generations past and future, of another human life, of their...

One can only hope that our horizons widen as we grow taller.

History doesn’t move you more than when it’s in the iron of your own blood.

I do so much writing. But so much of it never goes anywhere, never sees any light of day. I suppose that’s like gardening in the basement. I don’t publish so much of what I...