The trick is to teach yourself to read in small sips as well as long swallows.

The dream didn't fade as dreams usually do upon waking.

A critical assumption is sometimes made that [Grisham, Clancey, Crichton & myself] have access to some mystical vulgate that other (and often better) writers cannot find or will not deign to use. I doubt if this is true. Nor do I believe the contention of some popular novelists... that thier success is based on literary merit -- that the public understands true greatness in ways the tight-a**ed, consumed-by-jealousy literary establishment cannot. This idea is ridiculous, a product of vanity and insecurity.

Scaring people, especially in our day and time, is one of the hardest things on earth, as far as I am concerned.

It hurt, of course, but more often than not the best things do, I've found.

I understand from my own work that haste makes waste. But I also understand that ... the creative spark dims, and then death puts it out. William Shakespeare, for instance, hasn’t produced a new play for 400 years. That, my friends, is a long dry spell.

They're animals, all right. But why are you so goddam sure that makes us human beings?