When you're young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away. You're your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people too—leave them behind. You don't yet know about the habit they have, of coming back. Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you've been.

The best way of being kind to bears is not to be very close to them.

The object is very clear in the fight against racism; you have reasons why you're opposed to it. But when you're writing a novel, you don't want the reader to come out of it voting yes or no to some question. Life is more complicated than that.

Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.

Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!

The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free.

Richard liked to say he picked things up for a song, which was odd, because he never sang. He never even whistled. He was not a musical person.