Writing is making sense of life. You work your whole life and perhaps you’ve made sense of one small area.

Time is change; we measure its passing by how much things alter.

There is no moral authority like that of sacrifice.

The facts are always less than what really happened.

Writing is making sense of life. You work your whole life and perhaps you’ve made sense of one small area.

People give one another things that can’t be gift wrapped.

Responsibility is what awaits outside the Eden of Creativity.

Power is something of which I am convinced there is no innocence this side of the womb.

I cannot live with someone who can’t live without me.

The gap between the committed and the indifferent is a Sahara whose faint trails, followed by the mind’s eye only, fade out in sand.

The creative act is not pure. History evidences it. Sociology extracts it. The writer loses Eden, writes to be read and comes to realize that he is answerable.

From Ernest Hemingway’s stories, I learned to listen within my stories for what went unsaid by my characters.

A child understands fear, and the hurt and hate it brings.

Perhaps the best definition of progress would be the continuing efforts of men and women to narrow the gap between the convenience of the powers that be and the unwritten charter.

Censorship is never over for those who have experienced it. It is a brand on the imagination that affects the individual who has suffered it, forever.

A desert is a place without expectation.

Truth isn’t always beauty, but the hunger for it is.