An Eskimo Shaman Said, Life's

We Wake, If We Ever Wake At All, To Mystery, Rumors Of Death, Beauty, Violence.

We Have Not Yet Encountered Any God Who Is As Merciful As A Man Who Flicks A Beetle Over On Its Feet.

Novels Written With Film Contracts In Mind Have A Faint But Unmistakable, And Ruinous, Odor.

I Don't Know What It Is About Fecundity That So Appalls. I Suppose It Is The Teeming Evidence That Birth And Growth, Which We Value, Are Ubiquitous And Blind, That Life Itself Is So Astonishingly Cheap, That Nature Is As Careless As It Is Bountiful, And That With Extravagance Goes A Crushing Waste That Will One Day Include Our Own Cheap Lives.

What A Hideout: Holiness Lies Spread And Borne Over The Surface Of Time And Stuff Like Color.