My flist is full of writers. All are at least fun, most are good, and some are excellent. Three or Four are probably going to be paid someday for writing.

But only one is so literary, so gentle and tough-minded and strong and lyrical, so in touch with the music of language and the delicates tunes of souls and stars and slowly turning galaxies, that I finish reading any of her work filled with the knowledge that I am in the presence of art, that I have managed, for the briefest of moments, to lift a corner of some veil and glimpse the Face of God.

You, Kate, are that writer, and I am privileged beyond all measure to have had the opportunity to read your words.