Before birth; yes, what time was it then? A time like now, and when they were dead, it would be still like now: these trees, that sky, this earth, those acorn seeds, sun and wind, all the same, while they, with dust-turned hearts, change only.

Technically I feel total fluidity in writing. I feel there's nothing technically that I can't do the way a certain sort of pianist feels that. But that doesn't mean it comes easily. It doesn't.

Never demean yourself by talking back to a critic, never. Write those letters to the editor in your head, but don't put them on paper.

Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master's wrist.

I haven't anything against whores, except this: some of them may have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts.

It should take you about four seconds to walk from here to the door. I'll give you two.

Never love a wild thing...If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.