There is a purpose to our lives that each day tugs at our sleeve as an annoying distraction.

Material success is always tempered by the recollection that there was some kind of happiness that was supposed to come with it.

Are you an artist? Look about you. Is there a physical tool whose use you have mastered, a part of your body that responds utterly to your control? Is your motive esthetic? If so, you are an artist. If not, you are probably a writer.

If there's anything better than a God-given talent, it's a God-given day job.

If we would listen to our kids, we'd discover that they are largely self-explanatory.

You live long enough in a world spinning on its axis, you learn to spin in the same direction.

To trade a childhood wonder for a plausible explanation - is there a worst trade one makes in life?