There must be something in books, something we can’t imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don’t stay for nothing.

I want your loves to be multiple. I don't want you to be a snob about anything. Anything you love, you do it.

Your mind's always juggling, isn't it?-mirrors, torches, plates.

Shut the door, they're coming through the window, shut the window, they're coming through the door," are the words to an old song. They fit my lifestyle with newly arriving butcher/censors every month. Only six weeks ago, I discovered that, over the years, some cubby-hole editors at Ballantine Books, fearful of contaminating the young, had, bit by bit, censored some 75 separate sections from the novel. Students, reading the novel which, after all, deals with censorship and book-burning in the future, write to tell me of this exquisite irony.

So few want to be rebels anymore. And out of those few, most, like myself, scare easily.

It was a pleasure to burn.

The blizzard doesn't last forever; it just seems so.