I am too old to have ever been very worried about what "genre" any given book of mine might be. I read everything. I am easily amused.

Gardening is not a rational act. What matters is the immersion of the hands in the earth, that ancient ceremony of which the Pope kissingthe tarmac is merely a pallid vestigial remnant.

Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet.

Despite their cool poses they wear their cravings on the outside, like the suckers on a squid. They want it all.

Some days I do appreciate things more, eggs, flowers, but then I decide I'm only having an attack of sentimentality, my brain going pastel Technicolor, like a beautiful-sunset greeting cards they used to make so many of in California. High-gloss hearts. The danger is grayout.

and each of his voices left his body in a different colored soul and floated up towards the sun still singing.

I think the book you always like best is the one you're about to write.