A plot is like the bones of a person, not interesting like expression, or signs of experience, but the support of the whole.

I wonder the human race has been so fond of migrations, when the young take so hardly to traveling.

At a certain point my novels set. They set just as hard as that jam jar. And then I know they are finished.

Duty is seldom liked either by the doer or the object ... And why should it be? It is not often of advantage to either.

Pushing forty? She's hanging on for dear life.

People who have power respond simply. They have no minds but their own.

Civilized life exacts its toll.