Writing is a demanding profession and a selfish one. And because it is selfish and demanding, because it is compulsive and exacting, I didn't embrace it. I succumbed to it.

I think I would like to be in Victorian times. Small town. Bandstands. Summer. That kind of thing. Without disease.

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.

It has forever been thus: So long as men write what they think, then all of the other freedoms - all of them - may remain intact. And it is then that writing becomes a weapon of truth, an article of faith, an act of courage.

Coming up with ideas is the easiest thing on earth. Putting them down is the hardest.

I'd rather go along with this sense of illusion that I'm a neutral beast going along through life doing everything that's preordained.

I would guess that the price of the script really is secondary. The credit is much more the essence.