This is an issue of thinking about language, and its resilience.

I would have fallen in love with him too had not so many others done so already.

Now that our intelligence, having accelerated for centuries, has almost attained unimpeachability, we are not taking it lightly.

It was cruel, it was unspeakable, to allow innocence to mock itself this way.

The concept of civilization has acquired such popularity.

Maybe he should jump out of a plane. Does risk wake you up?

Remember longing / when it was legitimate, / remember writing / in an emerging language.

What kind of mischief are you up to?

I fashion my works from clay.

in dark / cold sleep, each branch a midnight / candelabrum of the cosmos.

Once I told you, love is a partial /anagram of solvency. Dear millennium, please— / I owe you nothing.

Could I / identify my mother by her hands? / Her feet?

Shoes of disappeared women / hovering in holes in walls

One might fail to notice / a hull amid the frozen waves.

The horse gallops / fog under its chin

The curtains were the color of red wine / The bedspread the color of sand

Such is the silence / of a woman who speaks against silence.

History was mutable and distorted… Life had given him permission to play with it.

I always knowed I had some of my momma in me. All that hell. All that hardness.

They said never to trust an Indian who doesn’t want to go back to his own reservation.

There isn’t much to tell. Tell me anyway. Soothe this old heart.

Of all Edith Wharton's characters, Lily Bart is most her author's architectural id.

I’ve lost my taste for anything that isn’t made up.

How important to designate even the most unimportant occurrence: What is nameless cannot exist.