There Are People In This World Who

A Child's Mind Is Its Living Room; It's Is Going To Be Residing There For The Rest Of Its Earthly Existence.

Writing A Novel Is Not So Much A Project As A Journey, A Voyage, An Adventure.

I Am Cheerful. I Don't Know If I'm Happy. There Is A Difference, You Know.

The Oyster Was An Animal Worthy Of New Orleans, As Mysterious And Private And Beautiful As The City Itself. If One Could Accept That Oysters Build Their Houses Out Of Their Lives, One Could Imagine The Same Of New Orleans, Whose Houses Were Similarly And Resolutely Shuttered Against An Outside World That Could Never Be Trusted To Show Proper Sensitivity Toward The Oozing Delicacies Within.

Minds Were Made For Blowing.