Style is made up of whatever an author can't avoid doing.

There are stories you build and there are stories you construct; then there are the stories that you hack out of rock removing all the things that are not the story.

But there was a kitten on my pillow, and it was purring in my face and vibrating gently with every purr, and, very soon, I slept.

What about volcanoes?" "What about them?" "All that lava comes up from center of the earth where it is all hot. I saw a program, it had David Attenborough, so it's true.

Let us begin this letter, this prelude to an encounter, formally, as a declaration, in the old-fashioned way: I love you. You do not know me (although you have seen me, smiled at me). I know you (although not so well as I would like. I want to be there when your eyes flutter open in the morning, and you see me, and you smile. Surely this would be paradise enough?). So I do declare myself to you now, with pen set to paper. I declare it again: I love you.

Often you will discover that the harder you work, and the more wisely you work, the luckier you get. But there is luck, and it helps.

It’s part of growing up, I suppose…you always have to leave something behind you.