It seems to be that way with most things. No one to do the really disagreeable jobs except oneself.

When I do it [writing] by myself, there's a lot more terror and uncertainty.

I'm predisposed to think that as a people, we're hardwired to understand things through the telling of stories. I think that as human beings it's part of who we are.

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane began with a friend giving me a rabbit doll - forgive me, Edward, for using that word; he doesn't like "doll" - for Christmas. I said, "Oh, he's lovely, what's his name?" And she said, "Edward." And a few days after I received the rabbit, who was dressed very handsomely in Edwardian kind of clothes, I saw him stripped of his finery and face down on the bottom of the ocean floor. Why? I don't know. But that's where his story began in my head.

[He] had the soul of a poet, and because of this, he liked very much to consider questions that had no answers.

Miracles and magic pervade the things that I've written, but yet there are no miracles and there is no magic.

I was a kid who lived to read. It was the primary pleasure of my existence. It's still one of the primary pleasures of my existence. It's where I draw my sustenance.