People permit life to slide past them like a deft pickpocket, their purse-not yet missed and now too late-in his hand.

Your idea of bliss is to wake up on a Monday morning knowing you haven't a single engagement for the entire week. You are cradled in a white paper cocoon tied up with typewriter ribbon.

Funny, isn't it, how your whole life goes by while you think you're only planning the way you're going to live it?

I don't know what it is that makes a writer go to his desk in his shut-off room day after day after year after year unless it is the sure knowledge that not to have done the daily stint of writing that day is infinitely more agonizing than to write.

The goat's business is none of the sheep's concern.

It sounds so far away and different. I like different places. I like any places that isn't here.

I suppose it is a gift, being young, but it isn't special. We've all got it, early in life.