I think people who’ve read my stories and a poem or two, maybe a blog post or interview answer, will know language intrigues me. I love when things are said beautifully or with such energy or playfulness thoughts blaze up like a quickening of fireflies, a blue rain of emergency lights.
But sometimes words are best just for their concision. I once heard Mary Bly describe the employment of her poet-father, Robert, this way: “He works very hard on small sets of words.” I consider that a perfect, sensationally accurate description.
I also have a fondness for the things people sometimes label “deep thoughts.” Occasionally I’ve stumbled on my own. Here’s one: Cate Blanchett, Tilda Swinton, Julian Assange, alone in a room.
I was happy to keep that. But this next thought—deep enough as it is–has the virtue of great simplicity and great truth. As a result, it may be my favorite of the genre and. though my mind goes on traveling, the point where I’ve chosen to stop. I’m not sure for how long. But here is the hiatus: In the literature of Russia, the snow is what makes it Russian.