My perfect day is sitting in a room with some blank paper. That's heaven. That's gold, and anything else is just a waste of time.

I don't know why I started writing. I don't know why anybody does it. Maybe they're bored, or failures at something else.

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.

And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. Like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to the day.

You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don't count. But yesterday is all that does count. What else is there? Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else.

But there are no absolutes in human misery and things can always get worse

You have to carry the fire." I don't know how to." Yes, you do." Is the fire real? The fire?" Yes it is." Where is it? I don't know where it is." Yes you do. It's inside you. It always was there. I can see it.