Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.

where a man feels at home, outside of where he’s born, is where he’s meant to go.

The real reason for not committing suicide is because you always know how swell life gets again after the hell is over.

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life.

I wanted to try this new drink: That's all we do, isn't it - look at things and try new drinks?

Let those who want to save the world if you can get to see it clear and as a whole. Then any part you make will represent the whole if it's made truly. The thing to do is work and learn to make it.

Rereading places you at the point where it has to go on, knowing it is as good as you can get it up to there. There is always juice somewhere.