When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.

When you play the field selfishly everything works against you: one can’t insist on love or demand affection. you’re finally left with whatever you have been willing to give which often is: nothing.

When I begin to doubt my ability to work the word, I simply read another writer and know I have nothing to worry about. My contest is only with myself, to do it right, with power, and force, and delight, and gamble.

there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say "no.

I don't know about other people, but when I wake up in the morning and put my shoes on, I think, Jesus Christ, now what?

There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out.

there are so many days when living stops and pulls up and sits and waits like a train on the rails.