If you're never ridden a fast horse at a dead run across a desert valley at dawn, be of good cheer: You've only missed out on one half of life.

I am not an atheist but an earthiest. Be true to the earth.

Jane Austen: Getting into her books is like getting in bed with a cadaver. Something vital is lacking; namely, life.

Hierarchical institutions are like giant bulldozers -- obedient to the whim of any fool who takes the controls.

Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.

John Updike: our greatest suburban chic-boutique man of letters. A smug and fatal complacency has stunted his growth beyond hope of surgical repair. Not enough passion in his collected works to generate steam in a beer can. Nevertheless, he is considered by some critics to be America's finest *living* author: Hold a chilled mirror to his lips and you will see, presently, a fine and dewy moisture condensing -- like a faery breath! -- upon the glass.

I always write with my .357 magnum handy. Why? Well, you never know when God may try to interfere.