Do any of us, except in our dreams, truly expect to be reunited with our hearts' deepest loves, even when they leave us only for minutes, and on the most mundane of errands? No, not at all. Each time they go from our sight we in our secret hearts count them as dead. Having been given so much, we reason, how could we expect not to be brought as low as Lucifer for the staggering presumption of our love?

Battles that last five minutes spawn legends that live a thousand years.

The rope by which the great blocks of taxes are attached to any citizenry is simple loyalty.

A man who can't bear to share his habits is a man who needs to quit them.

Writers write. That's all it is. It is as simple, and as complex, as that.

The soil of a man’s heart is stonier; a man grows what he can and tends it.

So okay - there you are in your room with the shade down and the door shut and the plug pulled out of the base of the telephone. You've blown up your TV and committed yourself to a thousand words a day, come hell or high water. Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about? And the equally big answer: Anything you damn well want.