All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It's my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset, I've won or lost. At sunrise, I'm out again, giving it the old try.

But you can't make people listen. They have to come round in their own time, wondering what happened and why the world blew up around them. It can't last.

When you reach the stars, boy, yes, and live there forever, all the fears will go, and Death himself will die.

The merry-go-round was running, yes, but... It was running backward. The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle-snapped its nervous-stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest-moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.

My characters talk to one another, and when it reaches a certain pitch of excitement I jump out of bed and run and trap them before they are gone.

Every day is Christmas Day to a dog.

If someone tells you to do something for money, tell them to go to hell.