For politics is in its essence as Adams had said, the 'systematic organization of hatred': either you were organized or you were not.

I do what I want to do. It was a brash statement of(her)girlhood. Now she was an adult, the boast seemed quaint. For rarely do you know what you want. Even after you've done it you can't say clearly if that was what you'd wanted or just something that happened to you, like weather.

Love is an indescribable sensation - perhaps a conviction, a sense of certitude.

Like a flame is real enough, isn't it, while it's burning?-even if there's a time it goes out?

If you're living with a scientist, you see the world differently than you do with a humanist. It's in some ways very subtle, the differences in perceiving reality.

I haven't the faintest idea what my royalties are. I haven't the faintest idea how many copies of books sold, or how many books that I've written. I could look these things up; I have no interest in them. I don't know how much money I have. There are a lot of things I just don't care about.

One writes to memorialize, and to bring to life again that which has been lost.