When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different.

He said that whether a man's life was writ in a book someplace or whether it took its form day by day was one and the same for it had but one reality and that was the living of it.

Our waking life's desire to shape the world to our convenience invites all manner of paradox and difficulty.

Remember her hair in the morning before it was pinned, black, rampant, savage with loveliness. As if she slept in perpetual storm.

If you think about some of the things that are being talked about by thoughtful, intelligent scientists, you realize that in 100 years the human race won't even be recognizable.

You are either born a writer or you are not.

Usually, you don't know where a book comes from ... it's just there, some kind of an itch that you can't quite scratch.