I read constantly. If I don't have a good book, I'm beside myself.

Much of the activity we think of as writing is, actually, getting ready to write.

Some things arrive in their own mysterious hour, on their own terms and not yours, to be seized or relinquished forever.

During the act of writing I have told myself something that I didn't know I knew.

I confess, right at the start, to the doubts - and sometimes outright dreads - that go with me as I climb the stairs to my study in the morning, coffee mug in hand: I have to admit to the habitual apprehension mixed with a sort of reverence, as I light the incense . . . and wonder: what is going to happen today? Will anything happen? Will the angel come today?

The more you respect and focus on the singular and the strange, the more you become aware of the universal and infinite.

There are two kinds of people. One kind, you can just tell by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves. It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving, changing... They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. In my opinion, they are the only people who are still alive. You must be constantly on your guard against congealing.