We Americans are trained to think big, talk big, act big, love big, admire bigness but then the essential mystery is in the small.

That is simply the most beautiful publishing office in the world, with that cranky old building in that wonderful park.

One of the curious effects of a bad hangover is that you think you're wrong whether you are or not. Not wrong in particulars, but wrong in general, wrong about everything.

When we were children we were errant enough to wish to be birds for the day but there's nothing easier to lose than playfulness.

We Are All One. When we allow ourselves to become aware of this statement in its purest form, we open the doors to reveal the oneness of being. Using the process of conscious evolution we begin to recognise our true underlying identity, for once we have glimpsed the existence of this realm, we then begin to reveal what it is . . . . our true natural state.

As an English major I was familiar with the stories of dozens of writers trying to get their work done among the multifarious diversions of the world and the hurdles of their own vices. A professor had said that what saved writers is that they, like politicians, had the illusion of destiny that allowed them to overcome obstacles no matter how nominal their work.

Writers can write outside their ethnicity or sex depending how open and vulnerable they wish to be.