“Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.”

The brain may take advice, but not the heart.

The wind is us– it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields.

Writing stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad and, even more terrifying, the difference between it and true art. And after that, the whip came down.

I always write the end of everything first. I always write the last chapters of my books before I write the beginning. Then I go back to the beginning. I mean, it’s always nice to know where you’re going is my theory.

Really being friends is the most important part, I think, of any relationship.

Friendship is a pretty full-time occupation if you really are friendly with somebody. You can’t have too many friends because then you’re just not really friends.

Past certain ages or certain wisdoms it is very difficult to look with wonder; it is best done when one is a child; after that, and if you are lucky, you will find a bridge of childhood and walk across it.

It’s better to look at the sky than live there.

To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the inner music that words make.

It’s a scientific fact that if you stay in California you lose one point of your IQ every year.

How do I look so young? Quite simple: a complete vegetable diet, 12 hours sleep a night, and lots and lots of make-up.

Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.

The enemy was anyone who was someone he wanted to be or who had anything he wanted to have.

Good luck and believe me, dearest Doc – it’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.

The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface.

I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

She smashes her knuckles into winter As autumn’s wind fades into black She is the saint of all the sinners, the one whose fallen through the cracks… (iViva la Gloria!)

It was one of those sumptuous days when the world is full of autumn muskiness and tangy, crisp perfection: vivid blue sky, deep green fields, leaves in a thousand luminous hues. It is a truly astounding sight when every tree in a landscape becomes individual.

Life is a metaphysical autumn, with time it changes the color of life and fall, but always has an aura of change and depth.

His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.

Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain, The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear. Not a person sees the bamboo’s shadow, One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.

Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.

A strip of water’s spread in the setting sun, Half the river’s emerald, half is red. I love the third night of the ninth month, The dew is like a pearl; the moon like a bow.