Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process.

His life, measured in space and time, will take up a mere few lines, which my ignorance will abbreviate further.

We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

From my weakness, I drew strength that never left me.

I try to avoid purple patches, fine writing, all that kind of thing... because I think they're a mistake. And then sometimes it comes through and sometimes it doesn't, but that's not up to me. It's up to chance.

The art of writing is mysterious, the opinions we hold are ephemeral.