It's because I have no sense of shame that I'm always willing to give things a go: I've ridden horses naked into the sea, I've climbed rocks, all kinds of things.
That mighty Being, who heaped up these craggy rocks, and reared these stupendous mountains, and poured out these streams in all directions, and scattered immortal beings throughout these deserts - He is present, by the influence of his Holy Spirit, and accompanies the sound of the gospel with converting, sanctifying power.
I look up to Floyd Mayweather, but I don't try to be like Floyd Mayweather. He's done great things, he's a role model. But those who say I try to be Floyd can go kick rocks.
I write in two very different places: my desk in Palo Alto, California, is piled high with myriad jumbled books and papers whose stratigraphy is a challenge. Summers in Bozeman, Montana, I write in a spare space, surrounded by interesting rocks and fossils instead of books, on an old oak table with nothing but my laptop.
There was definitely a moment, a time after 'The Hand That Rocks the Cradle', when I did get offered a lot of women in jeopardy-type roles. But I couldn't do it, physically, I just couldn't. But now I know what I know, I wonder if I should have played the whole fame game a little more.
The earth is rocky and full of roots; it's clay, and it seems doomed and polluted, but you dig little holes for the ugly shriveled bulbs, throw in a handful of poppy seeds, and cover it all over, and you know you'll never see it again - it's death and clay and shrivel, and your hands are nicked from the rocks, your nails black with soil.
I do like a little romance... just a sniff, as I call it, of the rocks and valleys. Of course, bread-and-cheese is the real thing. The rocks and valleys are no good at all, if you haven't got that.