I sat staring up at a shelf in my workroom from which thirty-one books identically dressed in neat dark green leather stared back at me with a sort of cold hostility like children who resent their parents. Don't stare at us like that! they said. Don't blame us if we didn't turn out to be the perfection you expected. We didn't ask to be brought into the world.

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

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

It's terrible to realize that you don't learn how to live until you're ready to die; and, then it's too late.

A story must simmer in its own juice for months or even years before it's ready to serve.

Living the past is a dull and lonely business; looking back strains the neck muscles, causing you to bump into people not going your way.

All the difference in the world between the movies and the thrill I get out of a play at the theater. Ay, yes! Like fooling around with paper dolls when you could be playing with a real live baby.