The writer after all is only half the book, the other half is the reader.

It's a funny thing about names, how they become a part of someone.

Genius disregards the boundaries of propriety. Genius is permitted to shout if shouting is productive.

I have been fortunate. I have done so many things and enjoyed so many things and had such a great life, not to imply that it is ending, but that there aren't many things that I feel I have left undone.

His mind reeled. Now, empowered to ask questions of utmost rudeness-and promised answers-he could, conceivably (though it was almost unimaginable), ask someone, some adult, his father perhaps: "Do you lie?" But he would have no way of knowing if the answer he received was true.

So many of my books, I don't want to say they have messages, but they have important things to say.

It's just that... without the memories it's all meaningless.