Time -- when pursued like a bandit -- will behave like one; always remaining one country or one room ahead of you, changing its name and hair color to elude you, slipping ou the back door of the motel just as you're banging through the lobby with your newest search warrant, leaving only a burning cigarette in the ashtray to taunt you.

I never promised the universe that I would write brilliantly; I only promised the universe that I would write.

We have hands; we can stand on them if we want to. That's our privilege. That's the joy of a mortal body. And that's why God needs us. Because God loves to feel things through our hands.

You must find another reason to work, other than the desire for success or recognition. It must come from another place.

Of course, we all inevitably work too hard, then we get burned out and have to spend the whole weekend in our pajamas, eating cereal straight out of the box and staring at the TV in a mild coma (which is the opposite of working, yes, but not exactly the same thing as pleasure).

True wisdom gives the only possible answer at any given moment, and that night, going back to bed was the only possible answer.

Everything really is going to be okay. (And if not okay, then at least comic.)