The humble were the elect of God. Did not the priests teach so, in their gemmed, kingly robes, from their towering pulpits?

What is any of this to us? Time is endless and ours. Love and Death are only the games we play in it.

I just love writing. It's magical, it's somewhere else to go, it's somewhere much more dreadful, somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere I feel I belong, possibly more than in the so-called real world.

It gets cold in the desert at night, particularly up in the mountains; the stars hammer on the rock and strike frost.

I've been criticised for writing in too complex a manner for younger people.

Genre categories are irrelevant. I dislike them, but I do not have the casting vote.

Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.