If There Is Such A Thing As

Some Things Arrive In Their Own Mysterious Hour, On Their Own Terms And Not Yours, To Be Seized Or Relinquished Forever.

I Work Continuously Within The Shadow Of Failure. For Every Novel That Makes It To My Publisher's Desk, There Are At Least Five Or Six That Died On The Way. And Even With The Ones I Do Finish, I Think Of All The Ways They Might Have Been Better.

The Act Of Longing For Something Will Always Be More Intense Than The Requiting Of It.

What Did A Few Ripples In The Flesh Matter When, All Too Soon, Now Or Later, That Flesh Would Be Making Its Return Journey To Dust?

How Easy It Was To Make People Happy, When You Didn't Want Or Need Anything From Them.