How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.

It wasn't until the Nobel Prize that they really thawed out. They couldn't understand my books, but they could understand $30,000.

Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique.

Where the shadow of the bridge fell I could see down for a long way, but not as far as the bottom. When you leave a leaf in water a long time after awhile the tissue will be gone and the delicate fibres waving slow as the motion of sleep. They don't touch one another, no matter how knotted up they once were, no matter how close they lay once to the bones.

The writer doesn't need economic freedom. All he needs is a pencil and some paper.

And even a liar can be scared into telling the truth, same as honest man can be tortured into telling a lie.

And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind, and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand.