My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world, and exiles me from it.

What you select from, in order to tell your story, is nothing less than everything. What you build up your world from, your local, intelligible rational, coherent world, is nothing less than everything. . . . . All human knowledge is local. Every life, each human life is local, is arbitrary, the infinitesimal momentary glitter of a reflection.

While we read a novel, we are insane—bonkers. We believe in the existence of people who aren't there, we hear their voices... Sanity returns (in most cases) when the book is closed.

Writing makes no noise, except groans, and it can be done everywhere, and it is done alone.

I have no control over my writing. I have lots of good intentions, but no control. There's a story that wants to be told.

I have decided that the trouble with print is, it never changes its mind.

As a kitten does what all other kittens do, so a child wants to do what other children do, with a wanting that is as powerful as it is mindless. Since we human beings have to learn what we do, we have to start out that way, but human mindfulness begins where that wish to be the same leaves off.