To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

The clouds over the land now rose like mountains, and the coast was only a long green line with the gray blue hills behind it. The water was a dark blue now, so dark that it was almost purple.

艺术是让不可见变得可见的一种方式。