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Nice people either keep their noses so clean they hardly know a thing, or they conveniently f***et what they know and fill their heads with daisies. You've got to talk to the rude ones as well.

Of course, I knew all of this as I stood by the side of the road. But I was learning that knowing things does not mean you understand them.

People in stories are sometimes expected to possess sterling character, to act with courageous purpose, and, on top of it all, to be a smidge smarter than everyone else. Well, maybe if I were writing my memories, I'd polish myself up and f***et a few things. But I'm telling the entire truth now. My story, as best as I can tell it, is all I have to offer.

I did not deserve that. The only thing I'd done was practice. If you practice, you expect to acquire a modicum of skill.

Living with uncertainty is like having a rock in your shoe. If you can't remove the rock, you have to figure out how to walk despite it. There is simply no other choice.

I do not even think an animal as abundant as the wild pigeon should be minus one. I say let all the earth be alive and overwhelmingly so. Let the sky be pressed to bursting with wings, beaks, pumping hearts, and driving muscles. Let it be noisy. Let it make a mess. Then let me find my allotted space. Let me feel how I bump up against every other living thing on this earth. Let me learn to spin.

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