The book is rich with insight, alight with compassion
The stories masked pain I never guessed at.
No one sets out to write a novella.
Instead of wondering about our futures, let’s go ask!
I almost never speak of my brother.
In Venice the past is everywhere present.
I once was an adventurous cook, eager to try out new recipes, learn new techniques.
There’s something strangely satisfying about slashing through your own prose.
Graced Land is fiction, but this character, this was from life. My life.
History is nakedly cruel and random, messy, inefficient, and thus, it must be clothed with story.
A place of Grace where you could be assured, comforted and uplifted, all at the same time.
I have slept in Elvis’s bedroom. Not too many people can say, can they?
Forty-five years after his death Elvis remains both American myth and American mirror.
Twelve solid hours of music, movies, jigsaw puzzles and Fools Gold Loaf.
Before writing Graced Land I had not given Elvis Presley a thought since the day he died
For eighteen years the ideas for this short novel hovered over my imaginative life.
“A History of the World from the Time of Adam to the Close of the Apostles’ Time,”
“Hi,” I said, laughing out loud, “and I’m Virginia Woolf!”
Memory will not be restricted to the needs of memoir. Memory is not merely unruly, but anarchic.
The past became like the creatures in Where the Wild Things Are, baring its terrible fangs, breathing its terrible breath.