I cannot imagine a sorrier pursuit than struggling for years to write a book that attempts to appeal to people who do not read in the first place.

No child on earth was ever meant to be ordinary, and you can see it in them, and they know it, too, but then the times get to them, and the wear out their brains learning what folks expect, and spend their strength trying to rise over those same folks.

The novel is a game or joke shared between author and reader.

He is careful of what he reads, for that is what he will write. He is careful of what he learns, for that is what he will know.

I know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand.

No, the point is not only does time fly and do we die, but that in these reckless conditions we live at all, and are vouchsafed, for the duration of certain inexplicable moments, to know it.

The world knew you before you knew the world.