Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there was it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away.

My characters talk to one another, and when it reaches a certain pitch of excitement I jump out of bed and run and trap them before they are gone.

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again.

I don't write science fiction. I've only done one science fiction book and that's Fahrenheit 451, based on reality. Science fiction is a depiction of the real. Fantasy is a depiction of the unreal.

You can write a short story in two hours. Two hours a day, you have a novel in a year

The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers.

I often wonder if God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down?