Jesus watches from the wall, But his face is cold as stone, And if he loves me As she tells me Why do I feel so all alone?

Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world.

The situation comes first...the characters...come next...[then] begin to narrate.

Hemingway sucks. If I set out to write that way, it would have been been hollow and lifeless because it wasn't me.

You are the grim, goal-oriented ones who will not believe that the joy is in the journey rather than the destination no matter how many times it has been proven to you.

I do believe that when we're in the process of dying, that all these emergency circuits in the brain take over. I base what I'm saying not on any empirical evidence. I think it's very possible that when you're dying, these circuits open up, which would explain this whole white-light phenomena - when people clinically die and they see their relatives and stuff and say, "Hello, it's great to see you."

She didn't see him at first. She was watching the dancers. Her color was high, and there were deep dimples at the corners of her mouth. She looked nine miles out of place, but he had never loved her more. This was Willa on the edge of a smile.