When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but to a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teen-aged boy finding them, and having them speak to him. The review, the stacks in Brentano's, are just hurdles to get over, to place the books on that shelf.

There is no such thing as static happiness. Happiness is a mixed thing, a thing compounded of sacrifices, and losses, and betrayals.

We all begin life as parasites within the mother, and writers begin their existence imitatively, within the body of letters.

It's not up to us what we learn, but merely whether we learn through joy or through pain.

Looking foolish does the spirit good. The need not to look foolish is one of youth's many burdens; as we get older we are exempted from more and more.

Living is a compromise, between doing what you want and doing what other people want.

A cynic is a kind of romantic who has aged.