Why do I write? I guess that's been asked of every writer. I don't know. It isn't any massive compulsion.

I'm afraid that if I started to ponder who I am and what I am, I might not like what I find.

I don't think it's man's function to write. I don't think it's a normal thing like teeth-brushing and going to the bathroom. It's a supered position on the animal.

I'm a Western-cultured man who subscribes to the ancient saw that men do not cry, I don't cry either. I'll go to a movie, for example, and not infrequently something triggers the urge to weep, but I don't allow myself.

Some people possess talent, others are possessed by it. When that happens, a talent becomes a curse.

A word to the wise to all the children of the twentieth century, whether their concern be pediatrics or geriatrics, whether they crawl on hands and knees and wear diapers or walk with a cane and comb their beards. There's a wondrous magic to Christmas, and there's a special power reserved for little people. In short, there's nothing mightier than the meek, and a merry Christmas to each and all.

I'm sufficiently independent to know that I can live well and comfortably all the rest of my life whether I'm rejected or not.