Few people know so clearly what they want. Most people can’t even think what to hope for when they throw a penny in a fountain.
If you want sweet dreams, you’ve got to live a sweet life.
I’ve about decided that’s the main thing that separates happy people from the other people: the feeling that you’re a practical item, with a use, like a sweater or a socket wrench.
Poetry feels like a country I visit without a passport, where I look around furtively, grab hold of something precious, and try to smuggle it back across the border. Any poem I get written down feels like contraband to me.
Because I write fiction that is based in the real world, it’s going to lead people into some of the modern dilemmas and concerns and even catastrophes that they will think about in a new way.
Everything you’re sure is right can be wrong in another place.
Thanks for this day, for all birds safe in their nests, for whatever this is, for life.
Growing food was the first activity that gave us enough prosperity to stay in one place, form complex social groups, tell our stories, and build our cities.
In a world as wrong as this one, all we can do is make things as right as we can.
I’ve seen how you can’t learn anything when you’re trying to look like the smartest person in the room.
Misunderstanding is my cornerstone. It’s everyone’s, come to think of it. Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet.
He was my father. I own half his genes, and all of his history. Believe this: the mistakes are part of the story. I am born of a man who believed he could tell nothing but the truth, while he set down for all time the Poisonwood Bible.
The power is in the balance: we are our injuries, as much as we are our successes.
The happiest people are the ones with the most community.
Eaters must understand, how we eat determines how the world is used.
Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.
Even feigning surprise, pretending it was unexpected and saying a ritual thanks, is surely wiser than just expecting everything so carelessly.
I considered her my ally, because, like me, she was imperfect.
Why is it that only girls stand on the sides of their feet? As if they’re afraid to plant themselves?
I learned to write by reading the kind of books I wished I’d written.