I have always kept notebooks and I go back to them over and over. They are my compost pile of ideas.

Can you stop your mother from singing to you? Who would do such a thing?

I got well by talking. Death could not get a word in edgewise, grew discouraged, and traveled on.

If only I had discipline, but alas, it is only an obsessive-compulsive trait and the beauty of habit that causes me to return again and again to my work.

Power travels in the bloodlines, handed out before birth.

The Internet, which seems now so embedded and personal and crucial to our lives, isn't at all - we really shouldn't think of it that way.

Add there was that moment when my mother and father walked in the door disguised as old people. I thought the miles in the car had bent them, dulled their eyes, even grayed and whitened their hair and caused their hands and voices to tremble. At the same time, I found, as I rose form the chair, I'd gotten old along with them.