Some things it don’t pay to be curious about.
Money can’t buy off the lightning.
A broken spoon may be a fork in disguise.
I was built with a love of the night and the unquiet coffin.
There is the Watchmaker Theory that God wound up the universe and let it tick. That may be. or it may be that he takes a hand in things from time to time. But whatever it is, I am sure that there is something out there.
Man may have been made in the image of God, but human society was made in the image of His opposite number, and is always trying to get back home.
Not writing would be like going the rest of your life without having dreams.
As far as where I go when I die, the concept that I am simple going to flick out, like a light bulb, to me is not only spiritually impossible to believe, but logically it is laughable – the idea that we simply die and nothing happens.
Writers write. That’s all it is. It is as simple, and as complex, as that.
American grammar doesn’t have the sturdiness of British grammar, but it has its own scruffy charm.
I am religious in the sense that I believe in God and I believe that there is an abiding logical spirit that controls what goes on to a certain extent.
Good writing is often about letting go of fear and affectation. Affectation itself, beginning with the need to define some sorts of writing as ‘good’ and other sorts as ‘bad’ is fearful behavior.
The sort of strenuous reading and writing program I advocate – four to six hours a day, every day – will not seem strenuous if you really enjoy doing these things and have an aptitude for them.
Belief in the supernatural or belief in wild talents like precognition and telepathy and telekinesis and things like that, it seems to me that belief in those things is just very, very freeing.
Do you need someone to make you a paper badge with the word WRITER on it before you can believe you are one? God I hope not.
We’re all going to die; I’m just trying to make it a little more interesting.
People seem to think there’s a magic formula to writing, i just write 1 word at a time.
You can’t polish a turd.
Mornings belong to whatever is new; the current composition. Afternoons are for naps and letters.
To the devil with false modesty.