I have taken as much as six years to prepare a book for writing. There is such a delirium of effort in the production of a book; it's like childbirth. And, like childbirth, one forgets the pains immediately so that when you come to write another one you dare to take it up again. Some precious anesthesia sees you through.

The clouds appeared and went away, and in a while they did not try anymore.

His ear heard more than what was said to him, and his slow speech had overtones not of thought, but of understanding beyond thought.

In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.

Sometimes, a lie is told in kindness. I don't believe it ever works kindly. The quick pain of truth can pass away, but the slow, eating agony of a lie is never lost.

I'll be all around in the dark - I'll be everywhere.

I have never smuggled anything in my life. Why, then, do I feel an uneasy sense of guilt on approaching a customs barrier?