What, after all, is more real to us than the geography of our childhoods?

Stupidity has a price and it always gets paid.

Each heart has its graveyard, each household its dead, And knells ring around us wherever we tread, And the feet that awhile made our pathway so bright Pass on to a land that is out of our sight.

Nobody gets beyond a petroleum economy. Not while there's petroleum there.

It's one of the strangest attributes of this profession that when we writers get exhausted writing one thing, we relax by writing another.

Words were like objects, making the idea more solid -- less a poisonous gas and more a ... cube of crystallized thought.

The whole planet reeks of mysticism without revelation.