Just because you're living in blissful oblivion doesn't mean you're not responsible.

Every battle, every war - is fought for things worth dying for.

A little is fine, but the minute you start believing that you've picked the only right one out of the 4,200 or so on offer, you need to get a grip on yourself. Once you start thinking that it's okay to hate someone that chose one of the 4,199 others... snap out of it.

It’s always hard. If it was easy, everyone would do it rather than going around telling you their ideas and saying how they could be a writer if they had the time.

The only thing that matters is what you do now, here.

Don't cook that chicken - it still has feathers.

I adore [my son]. I wouldn't trade him in for a Pulitzer - unless someone actually offered that as an option.

Writing is nothing less than thought transference, the ability to send one's ideas out into the world, beyond time and distance, taken at the value of the words, unbound from the speaker.