“Being a writer is a very peculiar sort of a job: it’s always you versus a blank sheet of paper (or a blank screen) and quite often the blank piece of paper wins.”

She says nothing at all but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.

Libraries are our friends.

Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world, I mean everybody – no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside.

Adults follow paths. Children explore.

People want to forget the impossible. It makes their world safer.

People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.

You have a good heart. Sometimes that’s enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it’s not.

I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating.

If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.

And did I pass?” The face of the old woman on my right was unreadable in the gathering dusk. On my left, the younger woman said, “You don’t pass or fail at being a person, dear.

He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.

Life is a disease: sexually transmitted, and invariably fatal.

Sometimes we can choose the paths we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us. And sometimes we have no choice at all.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.

You’re always you, and that doesn’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

We owe it to each other to tell stories.

Poets are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind because they drink at streams which we have not yet made accessible to science.

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

Great wine requires a mad man to grow the vine, a wise man to watch over it, a lucid poet to make it, and a lover to drink it.

I’m not confused. I’m just well mixed.

The proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.

No sensible author wants anything but praise.

Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.