It's kind of strange-- in fiction you get to tell lies and are applauded for it.

Sometime I'm going to do an essay called 'The Virtues of Amateurism' for all of those people who wish they earned their living in the arts. The market kills more artistic people than anything else. It's a world of safety out there, for most people. They want safety, the magazines and manufacturers give them safety, give them homogeneity, give them the familiar and comfortable, don't challenge them.

And I remember most of what I know that is good and true and lasting has come not from scholars but from minstrels and gypsies.

There are songs that come free from the blue-eyed grass, from the dust of a thousand country roads. This is one of them.

The road is a strange place. Shuffling along, I looked up and you were there walking across the grass toward my truck on an August day. In retrospect, it seems inevitable - it could not have been any other way-- a case of what I call the high probability of the improbable

The old dreams were good dreams; they didn't work out but I'm glad I had them.

The curse of modern times is the preponderance of male hormones in places where they can do long-term damage. Even if were not talking about wars between nations or assaults on nature, there's still that aggressiveness that keeps us apart from each other and the problems we need to be working on.