Time constricts and flattens, you know. It's not evenly weighted. Certain moments linger in the mind and others disappear.

I like the assumption that everyone is trying his best, and we should all just be kind to each other.

I never want to feel constrained by writing a novel for a specific audience.

It's human nature to want to think the best of others, but if you listen carefully, people will always tell you who they are.

And so it is that you learn how to pass, if you're lucky, to look like everyone else, even though you're broken inside.

In my teens I fancied myself an artist; I hung out with the eccentric art teacher at my high school, painted still lifes and portraits and landscapes in watercolor and acrylics, took private lessons, won some blue ribbons for my earnest renderings. My lack of talent did little to dampen my enthusiasm. In college I thought I'd continue, but, like Salieri, I quickly realized that while I had the ability to appreciate art, I wasn't actually very good.

So is it just human nature to believe that things happen for a reason - to find some shred of meaning even in the worst experiences?