Live, for this is the time of your life.

My birthplace was California, but I couldn't forget Armenia, so what is one's country? Is it land of the earth, in a specific place? Rivers there? Lakes? The sky there? The way the moon comes up there? And the sun? Is one's country the trees, the vineyards, the grass, the birds, the rocks, the hills and summer and winter? Is it the animal rhythm of the living there? The huts and houses, the streets of cities, the tables and chairs, and the drinking of tea and talking? Is it the peach ripening in summer heat on the bough? Is it the dead in the earth there?

Human greatness is a rather difficult thing to account for, and more often than not one is mistaken in one's hunches about somebody one has met.

Lionel whispered because he was under the impression that it was out of respect for books, not consideration for readers.

All writers are discontent. That's because they're aware of a potential and believe they're not reaching it.

The writer who is a real writer is a rebel who never stops.

I used to throw things out, saying, 'This isn't great.' It didn't occur to me that it didn't have to be great.