Such an ego simply forbade certain lines of thought.

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.

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.

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

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.

For the sake of our security, our economy and our planet, we must have the courage and commitment to change.

If people understood what life insurance does, we wouldn't need salesmen to sell it. People would come knocking on the door. But they don't understand.

If we were created in God’s image, then when God was a child he smushed fire ants with his fingertips and avoided tough questions.

That conduct often seems ridiculous the secret reasons of which are wise and solid.

When you run in the morning, you gain time. It's like stretching 24 hours into 25. You may need less sleep and get up earlier, but if you can get by that, running early seems to expand the day.

It is to be lamented that great characters are seldom without a blot.

Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down... and won.

I think Michael Moore is a hero. I love him.

Counting the ways the Book of Mormon brings peace to the soul is like counting the sand on the seashore.

Sometimes when she told stories about the past her eyes would get teary from all the memories she had, but they weren't tears. She wasn't crying. They were just the memories, leaking out.