My approach to revision hasn’t changed much over the years. I know there are writers who do it as they go along, but my method of attack has always been to plunge in and go as fast as I can, keeping the edge of my narrative blade as sharp as possible by constant use, and trying to outrun the novelist’s most insidious enemy, which is doubt. Looking back prompts too many questions: How believable are my characters? How interesting is my story? How good is this, really? Will anyone care? Do I care myself? — 14: 178-181
Before I close, I should say a word about the younger man who dared to write this book. That young man had been exposed to far too many writing seminars, and had grown far too used to the ideas those seminars promulgate: that one is writing for other people rather than one’s self; that language is more important than story; that ambiguity is to be preferred over clarity and simplicity, which are usually signs of a thick and literal mind. — 16: 197-200
back, because people like Henry did know how to use. First they changed trust into need, then they changed need into a drug, and once that was done, they—what was Eddie’s word for it?—push. Yes. They pushed it. — 190: 2617-2618
Fault always lies in the same place, my fine babies: with him weak enough to lay blame. — 191: 2633-2633
father’s shoebag from its nail beside the stable door, — 426: 4863-4864
at each one as he passes. And stand back a little, — 257: 3851-3851
of whom I speak?” “Marten Broadcloak,” — 269: 4021-4021
We may be cast on but no man may cast us back. — 253: 3476-3477
Will you open to us, if we open to you? Do you see us for what we are, and accept us for what we do? — 362: 4996-4996
“I believe it lures people on to acts of terrible evil by whispering to them that they will do good. That they’ll make things not just a little better but all better.” — 530: 7322-7324