“In my dreams I ate and I ate my dreams.”

You could not pity anything if you weren’t a man; pity was a surprise to God. It was not his invention.

Completed, most lives were alike in stages of living-joys, celebrations, crises, illusions, losses, sorrows.

The first draft of a book is the most uncertain-where you need guts, the ability to accept the imperfect until it is better.

You write by sitting down and writing. There’s no particular time or place—you suit yourself, your nature.

I don’t think you can do anything for anyone without giving up something of your own.

Comedy, I imagine, is harder to do consistently than tragedy, but I like it spiced in the wine of sadness.

The purpose of freedom is to create it for others.

Some men are by nature explorers; my nature is to stay under the same moon and stars, and if the weather is wet, under the same roof. It’s a strange world, why make it stranger?

There comes a time in a man’s life when to get where he has to go – if there are no doors or windows he walks through a wall.

How one works, assuming he’s disciplined, doesn’t matter.

Overnight business could go down enough to hurt; yet as a rule it slowly recovered-sometimes it seemed to take forever-went up, not high enough to be really up, only not down.

You see in others who you are.

I love metaphor. It provides two loaves where there seems to be one. Sometimes it throws in a load of fish.

It was all those biographies in me yelling, ‘We want out. We want to tell you what we’ve done to you.’

The idea is to get the pencil moving quickly.

To any writer: Teach yourself to work in uncertainty. Many writers are anxious when they begin, or try something new.

I ate too many Frosted Flakes. I don’t remember what I said last night.

You guys make the rules up, so a foul is a foul. It doesn’t matter if a guy is bigger and stronger. It’s not my fault I ate my Frosted Flakes when I was little, and you ate Wheaties.

A panda walks into a tea room and ordered a salad and ate it. Then it pulled out a pistol, shot the man in the next table dead, and walked out.

Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.

My mother kept the house clean and we ate good.

I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me,

But if there was a mini-comic here in my hand, I’d read it while I ate my lunch.

When I was 11 my friend’s mom made a peanut butter sandwich. I ate the sandwich and was like, ‘I’m never eating anything else again.’ And I still eat peanut butter every day. I would put peanut butter on a steak.