Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.

Open the hood of a car and it will tell you something about the people who designed it, is just one of many phrases I’m tortured by.

History is sinking and only a very few seem dimly aware that things are getting bad.

Women aren't very bright," Rip says. "Studies have been done.

Writing fiction is an act of imagination and fantasizing, and it's not relating in prose what you've been doing for the last two or three years.

At Columbus Circle, a juggler wearing a trench cloak and top hat, who is usually at this location afternoons and who calls himself Stretch Man, performs in front of a small, uninterested crowd; though I smell prey, and he seems worthy of my wrath, I move on in search of a less dorky target. Though if he'd been a mime, odds are he'd already be dead.

Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.