My father once nearly came to blows with a female dinner guest about whether a particular patch of embroidery was fuchsia or magenta. But the infinite gradations of color in a fine sunset - from salmon to canary to midnight blue - left him wordless.

I started to get bored with that stuff about only drawing men and I've taken it out of the slideshow.

I love Jules Feiffer. I didn't discover him until I was a little older.

I probably read Harriet the Spy about 70,000 times.

It was not a triumphal return. Home, as I had known it, was gone.

For some reason writing and drawing are very separate processes for me.

It's our very capacity for self-consciousness that makes us self-destructive!