Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.

The very air had screams smeared on it. He flinched from the noise in this silent room.

You would think such a day would tremble to begin . . .

Writing novels is the hardest thing I've ever done, including digging irrigation ditches.

Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness except greed.

I'll confess it is pleasant to look at you asleep. You're quite beautiful, Clarice.

What do you look at while you’re making up your mind? Ours is not a reflective culture, we do no raise our eyes up to the hills. Most of the time we decide the critical things while looking at the linoleum floor of an institutional corridor, or whispering hurriedly in a waiting room with a television blatting nonsense.