We still and always want waking.

Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. This is easy to write, easy to read, and hard to believe.

There is no whit less enlightenment under the tree by your street than there was under the Buddha's bo tree. I invite you to go sit under that tree by your street.

Write about winter in the summer.

The sensation of writing a book is the sensation of spinning, blinded by love and daring.

Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.

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.