...Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and he balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, and came up with the book all over his face and hands.

Man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, then steps in it.

A writer lives in awe of words, for they can be cruel or kind, and they can change their meanings right in front of you. They pick up flavors and odors like butter in a refrigerator.

A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And the people of the world were good and handsome. And I was not afraid any more.

If you're in trouble, or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones.

I nearly always write — just as I nearly always breathe.

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.