Is The Work Of Sun

The Environment, What Surrounds You, Is So Alive And Delightful And Complex.

Fiction Writing Feels More Honest To Me.

To Me, It's A Great Day Every Time I Receive A Letter From Somebody Who Climbed Inside One Of My Books, Inhabited It For A While, Learned A Little Something, And Emerged Grateful.

There Are Many Things Worth Telling That Are Not Quite Narrative. And Eternity Itself Possesses No Beginning, Middle Or End. Fossils, Arrowheads, Castle Ruins, Empty Crosses: From The Parthenon To The Bo Tree To A Grown Man's Or Woman's Old Stuffed Bear, What Moves Us About Many Objects Is Not What Remains But What Has Vanished. There Comes A Time, Thanks To Rivers, When A Few Beautiful Old Teeth Are All That Remain Of The Two-hundred-foot Spires Of Life We Call Trees. There Comes A River, Whose Current Is Time, That Does A Similar Sculpting In The Mind.

Our Lack Of Community Is Intensely Painful. A Tv Talk Show Is Not Community. A Couple Of Hours In A Church Pew Each Sabbath Is Not Community. A Multinational Corporation Is Neither A Human Nor A Community, And In The Sweatshops, Defiled Agribusiness Fields, Genetic Mutation Labs, Ecological Dead Zones, The Inhumanity Is Showing. Without Genuine Spiritual Community, Life Becomes A Struggle So Lonely And Grim That Even Hillary Clinton Has Admitted "it Takes A Village".