A work of art is one of mystery, the one extreme magic; everything else is either arithmetic or biology.

I don't want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together.

I always felt that nobody was going to understand me, going to understand what I felt about things. I guess that's why I started writing. At least on paper I could put down what I thought.

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

[Y]outh is hardly human: it can't be, for the young never believe they will die...especially would they never believe that death comes, and often, in forms other than the natural one.

When the prisoner is brought down from Death Row he steps from the elevator directly into a "holding" room that adjoins the witness room. There are two cells in this "holding" room, two, in case it's a double execution. They're ordinary cells, just like this one, and the prisoner spends his last night there before his execu­tion in the morning, reading, listening to the radio, playing cards with the guards.

Imagination, of course, can open any door - turn the key and let terror walk right in.