I don't know why I write what I write.

But... what about us? What about the past?" she asks blankly. "The past isn't real. it's just a dream," I say. "Don't mention the past.

And as the elevator descents, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even father down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst

Life is like a typographical error: we're constantly writing and rewriting things over each other.

There’s no use in denying it: this has been a bad week. I’ve started drinking my own urine.

I write books to relieve ­myself of pain. That's the prime motivator to write. Period.

So…” Kimball looks at his book helplessly. “There’s nothing you can tell me about Paul Owen?” “Well.” I sigh. “He led what I suppose was an orderly life, I guess. “ Really stumped, I offer, “He...ate a balanced diet.