Then the sun broke above the crest of the hills and the entire countryside looked soaked in blood, the arroyos deep in shadow, the cones of dead volcanoes stark and biscuit-colored against the sky. I could smell pinion trees, wet sage, woodsmoke, cattle in the pastures, and creek water that had melted from snow. I could smell the way the country probably was when it was only a dream in the mind of God.

If we break promises to God, shouldn't we be allowed an occasional violation of our word to our friends and superiors?

One day you'll have a quiet heart.

We all end up in the same place. Some sonner than others.

I think the "crime novel" has replaced the sociological novel of the 1930s. I think the progenitor of that tradition is James M. Cain, who in my view is the most neglected writer in American literature.

I used to save all my rejection slips because I told myself, one day I'm going to autograph these and auction them. And then I lost the box.

...and I wonder if there is any way to adequately describe the folly that causes us to undo all the great gifts of both Earth and Heaven.