We writers don't really think about whether what we write is good or not. It's too much to worry about. We just put the words down, trying to get them right, operating by some inner sense of pitch and proportion, and from time to time, we stick the stuff in an envelope and ship it to an editor.

A person does feel sheepish picking on journalists, a class already so richly despised that if a planeload of them crashed in flames, most people would smile from pure reflex.

They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad that I'm going to miss mine by just a few days.

You don't have to justify a beautiful stroke of good luck. Accept it. Smile and say thank you.

I loved feeling special. I hated feeling special.

You get old and you realize there are no answers, just stories.

I was brought up imagining that cream rises to the top, merit wins out, the race is to the swift and riches to men of understanding, but it ain't necessarily so. The swift stand a better chance if they are also beautiful.