Are writers reporters, prophets, crazies, entertainers, preachers, judges, what?

The life we all live is amateurish and accidental; it begins in accident and proceeds by trial and error toward dubious ends.

A muddy little stream, a village grown unfamiliar with time and trees. I turn around and retrace my way up Main Street and park and have a Coke in the confectionery store. It is run by a Greek, as it used to be, but whether the same Greek or another I would not know. He does not recognize me, nor I him. Only the smell of his place is familiar, syrupy with old delights, as if the ghost of my first banana split had come close to breathe on me.

In a way, it is beautiful to be young and hard up. With the right wife, and I had her, deprivation became a game.

To try to save for everyone, for the hostile and independent as well as the committed, some of the health that flows down across the green ridges from the skyline, and some of the beauty and spirit that are still available to any resident of the valley who has a moment and the wit to lift up his eyes unto the hills.

It is almost impossible to write fiction about the Mormons, for the reason that Mormon institutions and Mormon society are so peculiar that they call for constant explanation.

Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus.