The important thing is to be in love with something.

I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it’ll make sense.

A book has got smell. A new book smells great. An old book smells even better. An old book smells like ancient Egypt.

Love is easy, and I love writing. You can't resist love. You get an idea, someone says something, and you're in love.

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.

This afternoon, burn down the house. Tomorrow, pour critical water upon the simmering coals. Time enough to think and cut and rewrite tomorrow. But today-explode-f ly-apart-disint egrate! The other six or seven drafts are going to be pure torture. So why not enjoy the first draft, in the hope that your joy will seek and find others in the world who, by reading your story, will catch fire, too?

Don't write for money. Write because you love to do something. If you write for money, you won't write anything worth reading.