kd

“My childhood had no narrative; it was all just a combination of air and no air: waiting for life to happen, the body to get big, the mind to grow fearless. There were no stories, no ideas, not really, not yet. Just things unearthed from elsewhere and popped up later to help the mind get around. At the time, however, it was just liquid, like a song — nothing much. It was just a space with some people in it.

But one can tell a story, anyway.”
― Lorrie Moore, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?

“When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.”
― Czeslaw Milosz

“Things, I know, stiffen and shift in memory, become what they never were before. As when an army takes over a country. Or a summer yard goes scarlet with fall and its venous leaves. One summons the years of the past largely by witchcraft-a whore's arts, collage and brew, eye of newt, heart of horse. Still, the house of my childhood is etched in my memory like the shape of the mind itself: a house-shaped mind-why not? It was this particular mind out of which I ventured-for any wild danger or sentimental stance or lunge at something faraway. But it housed every seedling act. I floated above it, but close, like a figure in a Chagall.”
― Lorrie Moore, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?

“Nature held me close and seemed to find no fault with me.”
― Leslie Feinberg, Stone Butch Blues