I Read About Writers Who Have Routines.

I Would Never Never Read A Work Of Fiction And Want To Know About The Person's Life.

In A Way, A Garden Is The Most Useless Of Creations, The Most Slippery Of Creations: It Is Not Like A Painting Or A Piece Of Sculpture-it Won't Accrue Value As Time Goes On. Time Is Its Enemy' Time Passing Is Merely The Countdown For The Parting Between Garden And Gardener.

I Can't Get Upset About 'offensive To Women' Or 'offensive To Blacks' Or 'offensive To Native Americans' Or 'offensive To Jews' ... Offend! I Can't Get Worked Up About It. Offend!

One Doesn't Have To Pursue Unhappiness. It Comes To You. You Come Into The World Screaming. You Cry When You're Born Because Your Lungs Expand. You Breathe. I Think That's Really Kind Of Significant. You Come Into The World Crying, And It's A Sign That You're Alive.

One Day I Was Living Silently In A Personal Hell, Without Anyone To Tell What I Felt, Without Even Knowing That The Feelings I Had Were Possible To Have; And Then One Day I Was Not Living Like That At All. I Had Begun To See The Past Like This: There Is A Line; You Can Draw It Yourself, Or Sometimes It Gets Drawn For You; Either Way, There It Is, Your Past, A Collection Of People You Used To Be And Things You Used To Do. Your Past Is The Person You No Longer Are, The Situations You Are No Longer In.