How easy it was to make people happy, when you didn't want or need anything from them.

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

I work continuously within the shadow of failure. For every novel that makes it to my publisher's desk, there are at least five or six that died on the way. And even with the ones I do finish, I think of all the ways they might have been better.

What did a few ripples in the flesh matter when, all too soon, now or later, that flesh would be making its return journey to dust?

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.

Heroics are not easily had for the young in our times. Perhaps that is why they go to such extremes to create their own dangers.

You're supposed to get tired planting bulbs. But it's an agreeable tiredness.