Every writer at the New Yorker is smarter than me.

There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun, and it's been the ruin of many a poor boy and God I know I'm one.

It's not easy to define poetry.

I can be jubilant one moment and pensive the next, and a cloud could go by and make that happen.

... we're living in a Machiavellian world, whether we like it or we don't.

Seven shots ring out like the ocean's pounding roar, there's seven people dead on a South Dakota farm.

Pain sure does bring out the best in people, doesn't it?