I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry. Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.

His flesh took paleness from his bones.

Everything of mine is permeated with my love of ideas-both big and small. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as it grabs me and holds me, facinates me. And then I'll run out and something about it... I write for fun.

Thus through half-belief, we are often doomed to repeat that very past we should have learned from.

You fail only if you stop writing.

I don't need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.

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.