It should surprise no one that the life of the writer - such as it is - is colorless to the point of sensory deprivation. Many writers do little else but sit in small rooms recalling the real world.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and with that one, is what we are doing.

At night I read and write, and things I have never understood become clear; I reap the harvest of the rest of the year's planting

People who read are not too lazy to turn on the television; they prefer books.

I have since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.

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

I think that the dying pray at the last not please but thank you, as a guest thanks his host at the door. Falling from airplanes the people are crying thank you, thank you, all down the air; and the cold carriages draw up for them on the rocks.