Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance.

When you write, you lay out a line of words. The line of words is a miner's pick, a wood carver's gouge, a surgeon's probe. You wield it, and it digs a path you follow. Soon you find yourself deep in new territory. Is it a dead end, or have you located the real subject? You will know tomorrow, or this time next year.

I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.

why did I have to keep learning this same thing over and over?

The secret is not to write about what you love best, but about what you, alone, love at all.

You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.

Almost all of my many passionate interests, and my many changes of mind, came through books. Books prompted the many vows I made to myself.