“....how good Mrs. West could have written such books and collected so many hard works, with all her family cares, is still more a matter of astonishment! Composition seems to me impossible with a head full of joints of mutton and doses of rhubarb.”

“West had woken up something inside of me. I never felt more alive than I did when I was with West. West pushed me to be more. More human and yet more cybernetic at the same time. West could go anywhere with me. He could nearly match me step for step on scouting duties, could hunt with me. But I still didnt fully trust him. West kept too many secrets, had lied to me too many times. And he almost seemed to like to make me angry.”

“It does not matter how many books you have, but how good the books are which you have.”

“When I read these words I saw at once a connection to my own work. Anything good that I have written has, at some point during its composition, left me feeling uneasy and afraid. It has seemed, for a moment at least, to put me at risk.”

“The car was full of unhappy people heading west. It was the Great American Family Road Trip, all right. Whaaa-hoo!”

“In a badly designed book, the letters mill and stand like starving horses in a field. In a book designed by rote, they sit like stale bread and mutton on the page. In a well-made book, where designer, compositor and printer have all done their jobs, no matter how many thousands of lines and pages, the letters are alive. They dance in their seats. Sometimes they rise and dance in the margins and aisles.”