Overhead Was A Sky Blacker Than Jewlers'

Go Then, There Are Other Worlds Than These.

The Unconscious Mind Writes Poetry If It's Left Alone.

Most Books About Writing Are Filled With Bullshit. Fiction Writers, Present Company Included, Don’t Understand Very Much About What They Do—not Why It Works When It’s Good, Not Why It Doesn’t When It’s Bad.

I'm Going To Be Dead For A Long Time, So I Have A Lot To Do Now.

On The Day Of My Judgment, When I Stand Before God, And He Asks Me Why Did I Kill One Of His True Miracles, What Am I Gonna Say? That It Was My Job? My Job?