This is what art is all about. It is weaving fabric from the feathers you have plucked from your own breast. But no one must ever see the process - only the finished bolt of goods. They must never suspect that that crimson thread running through the pattern is blood.

a work that intends to be art must first be entertaining.

I woke up one morning and realized that what I wanted to say to everyone - children, young people, adults - was: Read for your life.

If you could hold your nose to avoid a stink, or close your eyes to cut out a sight, why not shut off your brain to avoid a thought?

The gift of creative reading, like all natural gifts, must be nourished or it will atrophy. And you nourish it, in much the same way you nourish the gift of writing - you read, think, talk, look, listen, hate, fear, love, weep - and bring all of your life like a sieve to what you read. That which is not worthy of your gift will quickly pass through, but the gold remains.

If you're so afraid of your imagination that you stifle it, how are you going to know God? How can you imagine heaven?

I was behaving, just like I promised, but fate intervened.