By the time I was fourteen the nail in my wall would no longer support the weight of the rejection slips impaled upon it. I replaced the nail with a spike and went on writing.

My wife has told me since that I was hungover every mornng until about two in the afternoon, and from five until midnight I was drunk out of my mind. So she says there was this period of about three hours when she could talk to me like a rational human being.

I'm still in love with what I do, with the idea of making things up, so hours when I write always feel like very blessed hours to me.

The quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

A person's memory is everything, really. Memory is identity. It's you.

Hearts are tough, Most times they don't break. Most times they are only bend

If you can't laugh when things go bad--laugh and put on a little carnival--then you're either dead or wishing you were.