Nothing the writer can do is ever enough.

Nothing the writer can do is ever enough.

But who knows what good might come from the least of us? From the bones of old horses is made the most beautiful Prussian Blue.

Many writers today are wanderers. There is not only an unhousedness in language - how to convey, to say nothing of converge - but an unhousedness of place.

Of course there is nothing that cannot be done incorrectly.

As you grow older, you'll find that you enjoy talking to strangers far more than to your friends.

You don't believe in Nature anymore. It's too isolated from you. You've abstracted it. It's so messy and damaged and sad. Your eyes glaze as you travel life's highway past all the crushed animals and the Big Gulp cups.