By staying, by shirking the responsibility and effort of leaving, by continuing to occupy this lovely man while giving him neither children nor a public companion nor a welcoming home-do I do wrong?

My dreams are crowded with people, as though to compensate for the solitariness of my waking hours.

In the end we have one choice: to suffer well or suffer badly, to reach for or to reject that quality which is termed, equally, by both religious and secular, grace.

...There is a duty of solidarity among all us impossible, near-invisible people: a duty, out of sheer cussedness, not to disappear completely, simply to ease the conscience of the rest.

Any fool can see the limits of seeing, but not even the wisest know the limits of knowing. Thus is ignorance rendered invisible, and are all Men made fools.

Gracious words are refreshing to the soul.

The purification of the mind is very necessary. (72)

The beauty of traveling solo is that you wonder unexpectedly, but almost certainly into the direction you were meant to go.

Some people are desperate because they don't know how to ask for His grace.

What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?

To make art you need to be inspired.

My words are a whisper, your deafness a shout.

I have several writer friends, but I don't involve them in my work process. I'm more likely to talk about the business of publishing with them.

Five hours' New York jet lag and Cayce Pollard wakes in Camden Town to the dire and ever-circling wolves of disrupted circadian rhythm.