I Get Inspiration, A Lot Of Times,

Later, Going Home, I Realized They Didn't Look Alike At All; What Made Them Seem To Was The Aftermath Of Stress And The Lingering Of Sorrow. It's Strange How Pain Marks Our Faces, And Makes Us Look Like Family.

The Loss Of Memory Isn't Always The Problem; Sometimes--maybe Even Often--it's The Solution.

Forced To Define 'irrational Subconscious,' I Would Say That It Is A Small Padded Room Inside All Of Us, Where The Only Furnishing Is A Small Card Table, And The Only Thing On The Card Table Is A Revolver Loaded With Flexible Bullets.

I Love My Sons And I Love That They Are Writers - I Also Love My Daughter, Who's A Minister And An Orchard Keeper! - But I Wouldn't Wish The Burden Of Mid-world And The Dark Tower On Them. I Enjoy Working With Them, Though, Because We Fit Together.

Our Memories Have Voices, Too. Often Sad Ones That Clamor Like Raised Arms In The Dark.