I began writing seriously in my mid-20s and didnt publish my first book until I was 41.

It seems to me nothing man has done or built on this land is an improvement over what was here before.

He wanted to think of words that would make some difference but there were none in any language he knew that were sufficient to the moment or that would change a single thing.

That was on a night in August. Dad Lewis died early that morning and the young girl Alice from next door got lost in the evening and then found her way home in the dark by the streetlights of town and so returned to the people who loved her. And in the fall the days turned cold and the leaves dropped off the trees and in the winter the wind blew from the mountains and out on the high plains of Holt County there were overnight storms and three-day blizzards.

My desire is to be anonymous, isolated, quiet, peaceful, and concentrated.

This country's crazy in terms of fame and what people think it means. They expect a writer to be something between a Hollywood starlet and the village idiot.

You have to believe in yourself despite the evidence.