That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts.

Poverty made a sound like a wet cough in the shadows of the room.

The sun rose yellow as a lemon.The sky was round and blue.The birds looped clear water songs in the air.Will and Jim leaned from their windows.Nothing had changed.Except the look in Jim's eyes.Last night. . . said Will. Did or didn't it happen?

I love writing, it's the center of my life. If you don't love what you do, you'd better find something else to love. Otherwise, you don't have a reason for living.

When I finished [writing it], I was crying. I knew at long last, after ten years of trying, I had written something good.

You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead

It was a pleasure to burn.