We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do —- we do it all the time.

The complexity of things—the things within things—just seems to be endless. I mean nothing is easy, nothing is simple.

We can’t resist this rifling around in the past, sifting the untrustworthy evidence, linking any stray names and questionable dates and anecdotes together, hanging onto threads, insisting on being joined to dead people and therefore to life.

Now more than at any other time in our history, we need to bring our intelligence and imagination to sustain our life support systems. –

Not wanting to better yourself is fecklessness.

It was a mystery presented without explanation and without hope of explanation, in all insolence, like a clear blue sky.

People's lives, in [my home town] as elsewhere, were dull, simple, amazing, unfathomable - deep caves paved with kitchen linoleum.