It's all still there in heart and soul. The walk, the hills, the sky, the solitary pain and pleasure-they will grow larger, sweeter, lovelier in the days and years to come.

Apuleius married a rich widow, then wrote _The Golden Ass_.

Places: a cold, bleak, lonely day on the rim at Muley Point, Utah. And the heart-cracking loveliness of the blood-smeared, bitter, incomprehensible slaughterhouse of a world.

For women, the sexual act is a means to a higher end. For a man, it is an end in itself.

I was once invited to take part in a heroic, possibly fatal enterprise, but I declined, mainly on account of sloth.

The ideal kitchen-sink novel: Throw in everything but the kitchen sink. Then add the kitchen sink.

The artist's job? To be a miracle worker: make the blind see, the dull feel, the dead to live.