Outside, daylight was bleeding slowly toward dusk.

Time's the thief of memory

Guys like Henry and his buddies were an accident waiting to happen; the little kids' version of floods or tornadoes or gallstones.

The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.

The sort of strenuous reading and writing program I advocate - four to six hours a day, every day - will not seem strenuous if you really enjoy doing these things and have an aptitude for them.

No good friends, no bad friends; only people you want, need to be with. People who build their houses in your heart.

You know what talent is? The curse of expectation. As a kid you have to deal with that, beat it somehow. If you can write, you think God put you on earth to blow Shakespeare away. Or if you can paint, maybe you think--I did--that God put you on earth to blow your father away.