Writers may be disreputable, incorrigible, early to decay or late to bloom but they dare to go it alone.

We are cruel enough without meaning to be.

I think books should have secrets, like people do.

When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas.

The world keeps ending but new people too dumb to know it keep showing up as if the fun's just started.

Perfectionism is the enemy of creation, as extreme self- solitude is the enemy of well- being.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.