From this outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living. Did all dying people feel this way, as if they had never lived? Did life seem that short, indeed, over and done before you took a breath? Did it seem this abrupt and impossible to everyone, or only to himself, here, now, with a few hours left to him for thought and deliberation?

You don't organize metaphors . . . you explode them.

Through lack of education, we're not teaching kids to read and write. So there is the danger that you raise up a generation of morons.

I felt a bit bookish, cut off from life.

A book is a loaded gun in the house next door...Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man?

Treasure this day and Treasure yourself, truly, neither will ever happen again.

It takes writing a billion bad words before you get to the good ones.