Thinking little at all about nothing in particular.

I decided that was the greatest idea I had ever heard. I started writing every day. I never stopped.

He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know who reflected your own light to you? People were more often--he searched for a simile, found one in his work--torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?

You've got to love libraries. You've got to love books. You've got to love poetry. You've got to love everything about literature. Then, you can pick the one thing you love most and write about it.

It's not going to do any good to land on Mars if we're stupid.

The important thing of any time you live in is to be in love yourself. You float above your time then. It's what you want that counts, not what your time wants.

The critics are generally wrong, or they're fifteen, twenty years late. It's a great shame. They miss out on a lot.