Certainly on the vast windy plain, there was plenty of nothing to be looked at.

I make my share of mistakes, but one I never make is to underestimate the power of things. People imbued from childhood with the myth of the primacy of feeling seldom like to admit they really want things as much as they might want love, but my career has convinced me that plenty of them do. And some want things a lot worse than they want love.

Writing is a form of herding. I herd words into little paragraph-like clusters.

I think its a sickness to grieve too much for those who never cared a fig for you.

It's a fine world, though rich in hardships at times.

Books can accommodate the proximity of computers but it doesn't seem to work the other way around. Computers now literally drive out books from the place that should, by definition, be books' own home: the library.

There isn't a thought in my head I care to be alone with for more than five minutes.