I work mornings only. I go out to lunch. Afternoons I play with the baby, walk with my husband, or shovel mail.

I do not so much write a book as sit up with it, as a dying friend. I hold its hand and hope it will get better.

One of the few things I know about writing is this: Spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book, give it, give it all, give it now.

A schedule is a mock-up of reason and order - willed, faked, and so brought into being.

Wherever we go, there seems to be only one business at hand - that of finding workable compromises between the sublimity of our ideas and the absurdity of the fact of us.

Time is the warp and matter the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurling shuttle.

Write about winter in the summer.