Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased.

It’s a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.

If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another.

You can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.

He was born in fury and he lived in lightning. Tom came headlong into life. He was a giant in joy and enthusiasms. He didn't discover the world and its people, he created them. When he read his father's books, he was the first. He lived in a world shining and fresh and as uninspected as Eden on the sixth day. His mind plunged like a colt in a happy pasture, and when later the world put up fences, he plunged against the wire, and when the final stockade surrounded him, he plunged right through it and out. And as he was capable of giant joy, so did he harbor huge sorrow.

What hidden, hoarded longings there are in all of us.

It's almost impossible to read a fine thing without wanting to do a fine thing.