Birds were like dinosaurs' better selves. They had short lives and long summers. We all should be so lucky as to leave behind such heirs.

His tiredness hurt so much it kept him awake.

Fiction that isn't an author's personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown isn't worth writing for anything but money.

I've moved away from that sort of deep-ecological extremism. I started to think: what can we do for wild birds right now? I don't want these particular species to disappear.

Certain kinds of things that the novel used to do, which was, "Oh, I'm living out here in West Nowhere, Nebraska and I'm curious how the upper class in New York City lives, I guess I'll read a novel about it." We don't have to do that now. You just turn on the TV. Turn on Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. You can get that information anywhere. Novels don't have to do that anymore.

...She felt that nothing could kill her hope now, nothing. She was seventy-five and she was going to make some changes in her life.

Nothing got inside the head without becoming pictures.