The story knows itself better than the writer does at some point, knows what's being said before the writer figures out how to say it.

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.

Writers when they're writing live in a spooky, clamorous silence, a state somewhat like the advanced stages of prayer but without prayer's calming benefits.

One writes to find words' meanings.

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

One is always enthralled, I think, when a young writer you're just beginning to read and comprehend dies.

I believe in guilt. There's not enough guilt around these days for my taste.