I suspect that on some level, life is a matter of indefensible loyalties.

I was raised to be ashamed of my ignorance, and to try to do something about it if at all possible.

Generally speaking, writers who have been at it for a while, and who are any good at it, suffer from an acute kind of self-knowledge. The unexamined life is not a risk for them.

We're angry about this, upset about that, but who has the time to do anything anymore? There are those reports to report on, memos to remember, e-mails to deflect or delete. They bury us like snow.

What every girl dreams of when she's dumped is - that the guy will someday feel regrest and come back and tell her all about it. And the beauty of it is you have no regrets whatsoever.

Nurture the Power & Wisdom of your Own Inner Strengths, with Good Intent.

Art in Nature is rhythmic and has a horror of constraint.

Apparently when I went to school, I had a Glasgow accent.

There are two equally dangerous extremes-to shut reason out, and to let nothing else in.

Some of us are born in the right place, and some of us have to go look for it.

I can't do with mountains at close quarters - they are always in the way, and they are so stupid, never moving and never doing anything but obtrude themselves.

The aims of anarchists and true communists are identical.

In terms of fiction, I'd rather go out and have a good time than read a book about someone having a good or bad time.

As we kill nature, we are killing ourselves, and God incarnate as the world as well.