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

What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

If even rock was interesting, if even this ugliness was worth whole shelves at the library, required sophisticated tools to study, and inspired grown men to crack mountains and saw crystals--then what wasn't?

Ecstasy, I think, is a soul's response to the waves holiness makes as it nears.

Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn in Hartford, Connecticut. Recently, scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

We live in all we seek.

We are here to witness the creation and to abet it.