Being able to write becomes a kind of shield, a way of hiding, a way of too instantly transforming pain into honey.

I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.

The difficulty is, all swing thoughts decay, like radium. What burnt up the course on Wednesday has turned to lead on Sunday. Yet it does not do to have a blank mind: the terrible hugeness of the course will rush into the vacuum and the ball will spray like a thing berserk.

We were all brought up to want things and maybe the world isn't big enough for all that wanting. I don't know. I don't know anything

You always find things you didn't know you were going to say, and that is the adventure.

I once did something right. I played first-rate basketball. I really did. And after you're first-rate at something, no matter what, it kind of takes the kick out of being second-rate.

I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head.