The huge round lunar clock was a gristmill. Shake down all the grains of Time—the big grains of centuries, and the small grains of years, and the tiny grains of hours and minutes—and the clock pulverized them, slid Time silently out in all directions in a fine pollen, carried by cold winds to blanket the town like dust, everywhere. Spores from that clock lodged in your flesh to wrinkle it, to grow bones to monstrous size, to burst feet from shoes like turnips. Oh, how that great machine…dispensed Time in blowing weathers.

The answer to all writing, to any career for that matter, is love.

If you're living in your time, you cannot help but to write about the things that are important.

I'll tell you," said Beatty, smiling at his cards. "That made you for a little while a drunkard. Read a few lines and off you go over the cliff. Bang, you're ready to blow up the world, chop off heads, knock down women and children, destroy authority. I know. I've been through it all.

Write a short story every week. It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.

Somewhere in him, a shadow turned mournfully over. You had to run with a night like this so the sadness could not hurt

Ideas result from the collision of metaphors inside the head.