Like most passionate nations, Texas has its own history based on, but not limited by, facts.

I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.

I know a little bit about a great many things and not enough about any one to make a living in these times.

A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through their mesh of prejudice, some paint it with their own delight. A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept wonders.

Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world

A day, a livelong day, is not one thing but many. It changes not only in growing light toward zenith and decline again, but in texture and mood, in tone and meaning, warped by a thousand factors of season, of heat or cold, of still or multi winds, torqued by odors, tastes, and the fabrics of ice or grass, of bud or leaf or black-drawn naked limbs. And as a day changes so do its subjects, bugs and birds, cates, dogs, butterflies and people.

A good writer always works at the impossible.