What I mean is sometimes, for an artist, chronic pain can be a gift.

It's pathetic how we can't live with the things we can't understand. How we need everything labeled and explained and deconstructed.

This would be...a book that would be a trapdoor down into some place dark. A place only you could go, alone, when you opened the cover. Because only books have that power.

People will listen to you only when they know you're dying, otherwise they're just waiting for their turn to talk.

The short stories tend to be a journalistic gathering of anecdotes that are put together to make something larger.

This is less teaching than damage control. You may as well paint a house that’s on fire.

Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.