I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions.

About a billion years ago, long before the continents had separated to define the ancient oceans, or their own outlines had been determined, a small protuberance jutted out from the northwest corner of what would later become North America.

You don't fight to protect warships or old men. Like the book says, you fight to save your civilization. And so often it seems that civilization is composed mainly of the things women and children want.

I was brought up in the great tradition of the late nineteenth century: that a writer never complains, never explains and never disdains.

An age is called Dark not because the light fails to shine, but because people refuse to see it.

Contrary to what people think, I slave over my books.

Writers turn dreams into print.