The Lord doesn't give a person more than he knows they can bear.

That's how you know you really trust someone, I think; when you don't have to talk all the time to make sure they still like you or prove that you have interesting stuff to say.

When the reader and one narrator know something the other narrator does not, the opportunities for suspense and plot development and the shifting of reader sympathies get really interesting.

The kind of life I want is to be a person who would get a personal note every day.

Try a little tenderness.

I remember being in high school and listening to Vivaldi's 'Winter' and being so overwhelmed with emotion.

It makes me think of Lazarus. He must have had those shadows after his miracle. You don't spend time in the tomb without it changing you, and everyone who was waiting for you to come out.

I had them all fooled into believing I was normal and well-adjusted, a rock of sensibility who could always be counted on to have a positive attitude.

Life was mostly made up of things you couldn’t control, full of surprises, and they weren’t always good. Life wasn’t what you made it. You were what life made you.

Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

When the remembering was done, the forgetting could begin.

Journalism is unreadable, and literature is unread.

The world is always greater than your desires; plenty is never enough.

I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining, because I'm free, nothing's worrying me.

There is no business on a dead planet

If a patron buys from an artist who needs money (needs money to buy tools, time, food), the patron then makes himself equal to the artist; he is building art into the world; he creates.

We go where we need to go, and then try to figure out what we're doing there.

If Ali says a mosquito can pull a plow, don't ask how. Hitch him up.

Daniel Patrick Moynihan is the archetypal extremely smart person who went into politics anyway instead of doing something worthwhile for his country.

I wasn't really asleep I was just meditating on unconsciousness.

The wild Bee reels from bough to bough With his furry coat and his gauzy wing, Now in a lily cup, and now Setting a jacinth bell a-swing, In his wandering.