Never give a good politician time to pray.

One night when my longing for her was like a fire burning out of control in my heart and my head, I wrote her a letter that just seemed to go on and on. I poured out my whole heart in it, never looking back to see what I'd said because I was afraid cowardice would make me stop. I didn't stop, and when a voice in my head clamored that it would be madness to mail such a letter, that I would be giving her my naked heart to hold in her hand, I ignored it with a child's breathless disregard of the consequences.

The quiet, singing voice of the rose. The song that promised all might be well, all might be well, that all manner of things might be well.

But this wealth of information produced little or no insight.

I try to create sympathy for my characters, then turn the monsters loose.

I started to submit when I was twelve, and obviously at that time they weren't good enough, and I suppose in my heart of hearts I knew it. But you have to start sooner or later, you have to dig in.

... suicide gets in the air sometimes. Like a cold germ.