A brave man could think. A coward couldn't.

I am your number one fan.

He lay back, put his arm over his eyes, and tried to hold onto the anger, because the anger made him feel brave. A brave man could think. A coward couldn't.

Such an ego simply forbade certain lines of thought.

There are lots of guys out there who write a better prose line than I do and who have a better understanding of what people are really like and what humanity is supposed to mean – hell, I know that.

He felt as he always did when he finished a book — queerly empty, let down, aware that for each little success he had paid a toll of absurdity.

... good advice was sometimes easier to give than receive.

He felt gladness roar through his soul.

But if you needed to HAVE AN IDEA, boredom could be to a roadblocked novel what chemotherapy was to a cancer patient.

... when editors were flattered, they would sometimes give in on some of their mad ideas.

She was crazy but he needed her. Oh I am in so much trouble he thought, and stared blindly up at the ceiling as the droplets of sweat began to gather on his forehead again.

My soul pines for the color in my heart.

Everything is happening according to the ‘drawing’ [past causes], You just have to ‘see’ them. Desires are ‘drawings’ too.

Be yourself. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe, shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish.

I think the harder the shoot, the more I feel like I'm enjoying myself.

Work hard with passion and courage. Life is a marathon of contribution. You really must work hard to accomplish something... Find your passion and get good at it.

I am not a Hindu, Nor a Muslim am II am this body, a playOf five elements a dramaOf the spirit dancing With joy and sorrow.

This planet is 15 million years overdue for an asteroid strike like the one that killed the dinosaurs.

It's a good time for me to pursue acting, I suppose since I'm enjoying having another medium in which to express myself. I've been getting a great response to my work.

A pencil in my hand, its secret life / is charcoal, the wood already burnt, / a sacrifice.

The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day; A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May.