Write about winter in the summer.

Trees have a curious relationship to the subject of the present moment. There are many created things in the universe that outlive us, that outlive the sun, even, but I can't think about them. I live with trees.

I breathed the air of history all unaware, and walked oblivious through its littered layers.

Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic.

Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child's toy Slinky.

Writing a book is like rearing children -- willpower has very little to do with it. If you have a little baby crying in the middle of the night, and if you depend only on willpower to get you out of bed to feed the baby, that baby will starve. You do it out of love.

The life of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life of the spirit requires less and less.