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For memory, we use our imagination. We take a few strands of real time and carry them with us, then like an oyster we create a pearl around them.

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What I was afraid of was my own grief, the weight of it, the ineluctable corrosive force of it, and the stark awareness I had of being, for the first ...more

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The dead are my dark matter, filling up impalpably the empty spaces of the world.

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He knows that after him everything will continue on much as before, except that there will be a minuscule absence, a barely detective gap in the so-ca...more

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Although it was autumn and not summer the dark-gold sunlight and the inky shadows, long and slender in the shape of felled cypresses, were the same, a...more