They seemed to be able to choose. We seemed to be able to choose, then. We were a society dying of too much choice.

All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

I see that there will be no end to imperfection, or to doing things the wrong way. Even if you grow up, no matter how hard you scrub, whatever you do, there will always be some other stain or spot on your face or stupid act, somebody frowning.

Some of our earliest writing, in cuneiform, was about who owes what.

Don't misunderstand me. I am not scoffing at goodness, which is far more difficult to explain than evil, and far more complicated. But sometimes it's hard to put up with.

I don't think I solve problems in my poetry; I think I uncover the problems.

A ratio of failures is built into the process of writing. The wastebasket has evolved for a reason. Think of it as the altar of the Muse Oblivion, to whom you sacrifice your botched first drafts, the tokens of your human imperfection.