[Henry Miller] was such a scribomaniac that even when he lived in the same house as Lawrence Durrell they often exchanged letters. For most of his life, Henry wrote literally dozens of letters a day to people he could have easily engaged in conversation - and did. The writing process, in short, was essential. As it is to all real writers, writing was life and breath to him. He put out words as a tree puts out leaves.

Poetry is fired by love.

You should write first drafts as if they will never be shown to anyone.

Court, in our society, is often the last resort of stubbornness.

As yet we use our media only for selling things - including, of course, political candidates. What will happen when someone masters the art of selling souls?

Friends love misery, in fact. Sometimes, especially if we are too lucky or too successful or too pretty, our misery is the only thing that endears us to our friends.

She was mine and not-mine all at once. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and the most terrifying.