I love my government not least for the extent to which it leaves me alone.

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.

Human was the music, natural was the static.

Government money in the arts, I fear, can only deflect artists from their responsibility to find an authentic market for their products.

I would rather be seated between any two women than any two men at a dinner party.

Smaller than a breadbox, bigger than a TV remote, the average book fits into the human hand with a seductive nestling, a kiss of texture, whether of cover cloth, glazed jacket, or flexible paperback.

America is a vast conspiracy to make you happy.