Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip, for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in.

Edgar Allen Poe really started me when I was 8. I fell in love with everything of his.

Time was a film run backward. Suns fled and ten million moons fled after them.

The novel's not organized like a screenplay. If you shot the novel, you'd have a twelve-hour movie.

The critics are generally wrong, or they're fifteen, twenty years late. It's a great shame. They miss out on a lot.

Why is it," he said, one time, at the subway entrance, "I feel I've known you so many years?" "Because I like you," she said, "and I don't want anything from you.

You'll be found, your nickels, dimes and Indian-heads fused by electroplating. Abe Lincolns melted into Miss Columbias, eagles plucked raw on the backs of quarters, all run to quicksilver in your jeans. More! Any boy hit by lightning, lift his lid and there on his eyeball, pretty as the Lord's Prayer on a pin, find the last scene the boy ever saw! A box-Brownie photo, by God, of that fire climbing down the sky to blow you like a penny whistle, suck your soul back up along the bright stair!