"Here’s what women think; they think: Forever."

— "Herself in Love" by Marianne Wiggins

"A man is something which is nothing like the full sum of its parts - the way a snow crystal is not. A little dust, a little air, a little water at high altitude do not freeze the mind in wondrous contemplation of the universe until, in combination, catching on a random tuft of crimson scarf, a snowflake, fluidizing, breaks a woman’s heart.
What women say, they say: ‘He hit me like a ton of bricks. He took my breath away. He unhinged me and I started shaking. He undid me. He has done me in.’ They turn tin ears on the music of the spheres and talk about his skin and his smile his tender failings. No enigma equals the obscurity of how a woman tries to justify her love. Love is not a theft; or is it. Love is not a treason, is it. Love is not a perjury, or crime. It cannot kill, or can it. It will not test the morals of a race, or raze civilization. It won’t annihilate the native vegetation. It may not even exist. As God might not. Why bother with it.
But women say, they say: ’ I can’t go on without him. I think about him nigh and day. He turns me inside-out.’ They say, ‘He has spaces between his fingers. He has fine hairs along his shoulders. He has toes.’ It’s as though discovery of the other sex, the sense of the parts apart, discloses brand new meaning on existence. ‘I never knew who I was ‘til,’ they say, he kissed me or he touched me or he closed his eyes and laid his head down and said ‘thank you.’"

— "Herself in Love" by Marianne Wiggins

"It was not uncommon as the weeks passed into months, that the day went by without a word between them being spoken. They still touched. Their touch, lingering on contact, last through the night while they were sleeping, cloning them into a single dreamless creature. Sometimes, without realizing it, they held hands as they took their meals at the rough table, Fos laying his hand on top of hers, not noticing, as his palm grew callused with farm work how her skin had chafed, grown coarser, too. It was as if a vow of silence, like a marriage vow, held them in thrall. Like monks communing with the sacred: there really wasn’t anything to say. Exhaustion, on its own, might have served to silence them–talk, after all, takes energy and concentration. Talk takes work, and they were tired at the end of every day. Still, in the beginning, they found strength. They whispered when they went to bed. They confided in each other. But soon too many things began to happen. One layer at a time–one thing, then another, like quick layers of embalming stoppered their responses, caught them speechless, baffled them, rendered their inarticulateness complete."

Evidence of Things Unseen by Marianne Wiggins

"Somewhere in the heart of North America there is a desert where the heat of several suns has fused the particles of sand into a single sheet of glass so dazzling it sends a constant signal to the moon. On a map, this unmarked space looks like a printer’s error, an empty region on a page the cartographer forgot. One way or another each of us is drawn to this forbidden place. Like a magnet, this glass desert calls our irons the way the whale’s heart used to beckon a harpoon. In our dreams or in our fears we imagine what it must be like to walk upon this surface. We imagine we could balance there, like an angel lighting down on ice, glissade, perhaps, without cracking its thin shell with the weight of our existence. This desert’s name is Trinity. One day the sun rose twice there in a single mourning and Man saw his face reflected on the underside of heaven. When the first atomic bomb exploded over earth that morning, the entire sky broadcast the news. Creation of the universe, that day, was reenacted. This time, God was not the only audience. If birth is fission, then the love we make is fusion; and to make an End is nothing more that to realize a new Beginning. Because the end is where we start. Somewhere in the hear of North America there is a desert made of glass. Reflected in that glass are two lovers, twinned for all eternity, the shape of all their days preserved like history’s signature in stone. Their lover preserved, like wings, in amber."

Evidence of Things Unseen by Marianne Wiggins

"If writing were as fun as falling in love, I’d get a lot more written, but most of my Realizations come as pinpoints of light while staring at the dismal tundra of an empty page. Given my average event horizon, most of my ideas don’t have the bursts, the color spectra of world-altering discoveries like Newton’s did, or Galileo’s. Mine are minor stellar occurrences, but strung up as a necklace of small lights, my bright ideas dot the boundaries that define my life. When one occurs, then, it’s a Birth Day, like the birth of a new star far off in the universe."

The Shadow Catcher by Marianne Wiggins

"In our dreams, as in our tales, we use the dead to tell us things we’d otherwise have to admit that we are saying to ourselves."

The Shadow Catcher by Marianne Wiggins