Pen-bereavement Is A Serious Matter.

I Have Always Felt That The Action Most Worth Watching Is Not At The Center Of Things But Where Edges Meet. I Like Shorelines, Weather Fronts, International Borders. There Are Interesting Frictions And Incongruities In These Places, And Often, If You Stand At The Point Of Tangency, You Can See Both Sides Better Than If You Were In The Middle Of Either One.

If My Father Were Still Writing Essays, Every Full-grown 'girl' Would Probably Be Transformed Into A'woman'.

Some Day, As Soon As A Book Is Printed It Will Be Simultaneously Put Into Digital Form. That Will Be A Wonderful Research Tool, But It Will Never Substitute For Holding The Book. I Feel Certain That At Least Within My Lifetime, Everyone Will Still Be Going To The Bookstore And Buying Printed Books. Thank God I'll Die Before I Have To Worry About Whether The Printed Book Itself Will Disappear. That's Something I Don't Want To Live To See.

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.

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