I cannot stand that whole game of confession, that is: Here I have sinned, now I'm confessing my sins, and describing my path of sin and then in the act of confession I beg for your forgiveness and redemption.

Arabs are a complete abstraction in the propaganda world and all the death and destruction is completely unreal to Americans.

Lord, why did you leave me in these woods?

Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there.

I cannot live or write without music. It stimulates the normally dormant parts of my brain that come in handy when constructing fiction.

My country's main exports are stolen cars and sadness.

I'm a dilettante by temperament. I don't have any expectation.