Artists create things that point us to beauty, to truth, to God.
How can I not believe that there is a God who exists and loves, when the people before me are infused with that love and pour it out daily?
The day we forget the horror, Sam, we will repeat it. Never forget your past. It will make you less human, less than human.
Honesty is easier when you have no face and no real name. And honesty, for me, is very easy on paper.
We didn’t talk much, and the silence hung like a silk curtain, light and lovely.
He reminds me of a comfortable sweater that you pull on, knowing it will keep you warm every time.
I closed my eyes to hug him tighter and give him that elusive feeling of unconditional love and complete safety. The feeling we seek but, in this life and in this world, perhaps never quite find.
Maybe that’s what love is—sacrificing yourself to save another, taking the insult or taking the hit.
Love spills out of these people. That’s what I want. Settling for anything less is a lie.
People forget your face after a book tour or an infrequent appearance on Letterman, but put your face on your books and you’re handing them your life. They presume to know what you think or who you are.