The tragedy of bold, forthright, industrious people is that they act so continuously without much thinking, that it becomes dry and empty.

Since you are like no other being ever created since the beginning of time, you are incomparable.

This is what I learned: that everybody is talented, original and has something important to say.

I will tell you what I have learned myself. For me, a long five or six mile walk helps. And one must go alone and every day.

Work freely and rollickingly as though you were talking to a friend who loves you. Mentally (at least three or four times a day) thumb your nose at all know-it-alls, jeerers, critics, doubters.

When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand. Ideas actually begin to grow within us and come to life.

We are always afraid to start something that we want to make very good, true, and serious.

I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like child stringing beads in kindergarten, - happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.

Families are great murderers of the creative impulsive, particularly husbands.

No writing is a waste of time – no creative work where the feelings, the imagination, the intelligence must work. With every sentence you write, you have learned something. It has done you good.

Inspiration comes to us slowly and quietly . prime it with a little solitude.

and if i asked you to name all the things that you love, how long would it take for you to name yourself?

If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face--forever.

Novel technologies and ideas that impinge on human biology and their perceived impact on human values have renewed strains in the relationship between science and society.

The person attempting to travel two roads at once will get nowhere.

Like the sea itself, the unconscious yields an endless and self-replenishing abundance of creatures, a wealth beyond our fathoming.

It was as if she had emitted a pulse of radiation that reached him even where he stood, and it bathed him and it burned him.

Something that is very difficult to translate is the humor.

I would rather be an expert on me than on Cicero

For writers from working-class families, the making of art is cultural disenfranchisement, for we do not belong in literary circles and our writing rarely makes it back home.

My understanding is, the fans are so ravenous in Canada, they gnaw on the stars.