Christmas Is Not A Season. It Is

Wasn't Marriage, Like Life, Unstimulating And Unprofitable And Somewhat Empty When Too Well Ordered And Protected And Guarded. Wasn't It Finer, More Splendid, More Nourishing, When It Was, Like Life Itself, A Mixture Of The Sordid And The Magnificent; Of Mud And Stars; Of Earth And Flowers; Of Love And Hate And Laughter And Tears And Ugliness And Beauty And Hurt.

I Like Any Place That Isn't Here.

The Ideal View For Daily Writing, Hour For Hour, Is The Blank Brick Wall Of A Cold-storage Warehouse. Failing This, A Stretch Of Sky Will Do, Cloudless If Possible.

I Never Go To Weddings. Waste Of Time. Person Can Get Married A Dozen Times. Lots Of Folks Do. Family Like Ours, Know Everybody In The State Of Texas And Around Outside, Why, You Could Spend Your Life Going To Weddings. But A Funeral, That's Different. You Only Die Once.

Writing, To Be Memorable, Must Be Done In A State Of Impassioned Serenity.