The city has to do what any citizen or family does, when you have a dream. You tighten your belt. You sacrifice some luxuries. Above all, you don't waste a dime.

Writers would be warm, loyal, and otherwise terrific people-if only they'd stop writing.

Maybe everything really does just have an expiration date--one that you can't see until she tells you she's leaving, and then she's gone.

Fire will burn any human body it touches, and starvation will waste it, but stories are not so predictable in their effects.

The past will find a way to squeeze into the present–if you let it.

Do the children who prefer books set in the real, ordinary, workaday world ever read as obsessively as those who would much rather be transported into other worlds entirely?

The closer and more completely you can come to explaining what a work of art means, the less like art it seems.