There are spiders living comfortably in my house while the wind howls outside. They aren't bothering anybody. If I were a fly, I'd have second thoughts, but I'm not, so I don't.

The sun was like a huge 50-cent piece that someone had poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match, and said, "Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper," and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.

My teachers could easily have ridden with Jesse James for all the time they stole from me.

We could see the children's toys here and there, and we saw a game that the children had made themselves out of dirt, deer antlers and abalone shells, but the game was so strange that only children could tell what it was. Perhaps it wasn't a game at all, only the grave of a game.

If you get hung up on everybody else's hang-ups, then the whole world's going to be nothing more than one huge gallows.

I don't know these people and they aren't my flowers.

I have always wanted to write a book that ended with the word 'mayonnaise.