You stay in the war because it would be shameful to stay out of it. An then grief seizes you and hold its grip till anger has turned you into a soldier.
A man dies and his skin loses heat like the sand on a summer evening. It makes you feel like warming him up.
I grow fond of David, who lays a single stone before Goliath and a single book, the Psalms, in the mouth of the world.
I take the book stopped at a fold, deliver myself to its pace, to the breathing of the other storyteller. If I am someone else, it’s also because books move men more than journeys or tears.
After many pages you end up learning a variant, a different move than the one taken and thought inevitable.
I break away from what I am when I learn to treat my own life differently.