Somebody said the prospect of eminent death has a wonderful clarifying effect on the mind. And I don't know if that's true, but I do think it probably causes some changes, some evolution in the way a person works. But on a day-by-day basis, I just still enjoy doing what I'm doing.

We fool ourselves so much we could do it for a living.

It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living, or get busy dying.

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

Never give a good politician time to pray.

Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust.

How many have to die before we will give up these dangerous toys?