Death Steals Everything Except Our Stories.

I'd Rather Get A Brain Tumor Than Go Back To Teaching.

How Wonderful It Was To Love Something Without The Compromise Of Language.

All Artists As A Type Seem To Suffer A Great Deal, But Then So Do Miners.

We Americans Are Trained To Think Big, Talk Big, Act Big, Love Big, Admire Bigness But Then The Essential Mystery Is In The Small.

As An English Major I Was Familiar With The Stories Of Dozens Of Writers Trying To Get Their Work Done Among The Multifarious Diversions Of The World And The Hurdles Of Their Own Vices. A Professor Had Said That What Saved Writers Is That They, Like Politicians, Had The Illusion Of Destiny That Allowed Them To Overcome Obstacles No Matter How Nominal Their Work.