A book has got to smell. You have to hold it in your hands and pray to it.

Why live? Life was its own answer. Life was the propagation of more life and the living of as good a life as possible.

When you go home tonight, make a list of the people who are impediments, who don't believe in you, and call them up and tell them, 'Get the hell out of my life.' You don't need them. Writing is tough enough without having people around you who contribute to a writer's insecurity.

All of my writing is God-given.

Please, please, help me grow to be like them, the ones'll soon be here, who never grow old, can't die, that's what they say, can't die, no matter what, or maybe they died a long time ago but Cecy calls, and Mother and Father call, and Grandmere who only whispers, and now they're coming and I'm nothing, not like them who pass through walls and live in trees or live underneath until seventeen-year rains flood them up and out, and the ones who run in packs, let me be the one! If they live forever, why not me?

The real fear isn't rejection, but that there won't be enough time in your life to write all the stories that you have in you.

Can't you recognize the human in the inhuman?