I'm speaking of the pursuit of excellence in all things. All things! Presence of mind and devotion to craft. A great artist has these. A great chef. A great master of tea. There's powerful kung fu in a well-built house or an eloquent letter, but the limit of your imagination is bones breaking and bullets flying.

Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.

Nobody admires anyone else without qualification. If they do they're after an image, not a person.

I think it’s fairly common for writers to be afflicted with two simultaneous yet contradictory delusions, the burning certainty that we’re unique geniuses, and the constant fear that we’re witless frauds who are speeding toward epic failure.

When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit.

So that makes us robbers of robbers," said Bug, "who pretend to be robbers working for a robber of other robbers.

We like what we like, we want what we want, and nobody needs to give us permission to feel that way!