We have everything we need to be happy$$$ but we aren't happy. Something's missing.

Suddenly the day was gone$$$ night came out from under each tree and spread.

For if we're destroyed$$$ the knowledge is dead...We're nothing more than dust jackets for books...so many pages to a person...

Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations.

I'm ALIVE. Thinking about it$$$ noticing it$$$ is new. You do things and don't watch. Then all of a sudden you look and see what you're doing and it's the first time$$$ really.

Love what you do and do what you love. Don't listen to anyone else who tells you not to do it. You do what you want$$$ what you love. Imagination should be the center of your life.

When they give you lined paper$$$ write the other way.

A book is a loaded gun in the house next door...Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man?

The magic is only in what books say$$$ how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us.

There must be something in books$$$ something we can't imagine$$$ to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing.