The answer to all writing, to any career for that matter, is love.
I was not predicting the future, I was trying to prevent it.
The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers.
Ah, art! Ah, life! The pendulum swinging back and forth, from complex to simple, again to complex. From romantic to realistic, back to romantic.
Is it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we're hated so much?
The trouble with Jim was he looked at the world and could not look away. And when you never look away all your life, by the time you are thirteen you have done twenty years taking in the laundry of the world.