People think that I must be a very strange person. This is not correct. I have the heart of a small boy. It is in a glass jar on my desk.

If anyone ever asks you what panic is, now you can tell them: an emotional blank spot that leaves you feeling as if you've been sucking on a mouthful of pennies.

You can't deny laughter; when it comes, it plops down in your favorite chair and stays as long as it wants.

I don't spend the day writing. I'll maybe write fresh copy for two hours, and then I'll go back and revise some of it and print what I like and then turn it off.

When you write a book, you spend day after day scanning and identifying the trees. When you’re done, you have to step back and look at the forest.

As always, the blessed relief of starting, a feeling that was like falling into a hole filled with bright light. As always, the glum knowledge that he would not write as well as he wanted to write. As always the terror of not being able to finish, of accelerating into a brick wall. As always, the marvelous joyful nervy feeling of journey begun.

It's only a little secret, but having a secret makes me feel better. Like a human being again.