And I Had Always Liked

It Was Possible, He Understood, For A Person's Life To Become Just A Long Series Of Mistakes, And That The End, When It Came, Was Just One More Mistake In A Chain Of Bad Choices. The Thing Was, Most Of These Mistakes Were Actually Borrowed From Other People. You Took Their Bad Ideas, And For Whatever Reason, Made Them Your Own.

If You Are Writing Any Book About The End Of The World, What You Are Really Writing About Is What's Worth Saving About It.

One Thing That Worried Me Was How Writers Get Categorized And So They End Up Having To Write The Same Kind Of Book Again And Again. That Is Fine If It Is What You Want To Do, But I Would Rather Be Locked In The Trunk Of My Car With A Weasel Than Write The Same Book Every Three Years Until I Die.

A Thousand Recollected Lives Were Passing Through Her, A Thousand Stories - Of Love And Work, Of Parents And Children, Of Duty And Joy And Grief. Beds Slept In And Meals Eaten, And The Bliss And Pain Of The Body, And A View Of Summer Leaves From A Window On A Morning It Had Rained; The Nights Of Loneliness And The Nights Of Love, The Soul In It's Body Keeping Always Longing To Be Known.

It Had Never Occurred To Her That God Would Cry, But Of Course That Was Wrong. God Would Be Crying All The Time. He Would Cry And Cry And Never Stop.