I Can Imagine Few Worse

One Reason We Have Children I Think Is To Learn That Parts Of Ourselves We Had Given Up For Dead Are Merely Dormant And That The Old Joys Can Re Emerge Fresh And New And In A Completely Different Form.

In My View, Nineteen Pounds Of Old Books Are At Least Nineteen Times As Delicious As One Pound Of Fresh Caviar.

Something Amazing Happens When The Rest Of The World Is Sleeping. I Am Glued To My Chair. I Forget That I Ever Wanted To Do Anything But Write. The Crowded City, The Crowded Apartment, And The Crowded Calendar Suddenly Seem Spacious. Three Or Four Hours Pass In A Moment; I Have No Idea What Time It Is, Because I Never Check The Clock. If I Chose To Listen, I Could Hear The Swish Of Taxis Bound For Downtown Bars Or The Soft Saxophone Riffs That Drift From A Neighbor's Window, But Nothing Gets Through. I Am Suspended In A Sensory Deprivation Tank, And The Very Lack Of Sensation Is Delicious.

I Can Think Of Few Better Ways To Introduce A Child To Books Than To Let Her Stack Them, Upend Them, Rearrange Them, And Get Her Fingerprints All Over Them.

Muses Are Fickle, And Many A Writer, Peering Into The Voice, Has Escaped Paralysis By Ascribing The Creative Responsibility To A Talisman: A Lucky Charm, A Brand Of Paper, But Most Often A Writing Instrument. Am I Writing Well? Thank My Pen. Am I Writing Badly? Don't Blame Me Blame My Pen. By Such Displacements Does The Fearful Imagination Defend Itself.