Every man with his own peculiar vice. His will hardly rock heaven or hell.

I gave them all the truth and none of the honesty.

That was the sort of everyday love I had to learn to contend with: if you grow up with it, it's hard to think you'll ever match it. I used to think it was difficult for children of folks who really loved each other, hard to get out from under that skin because sometimes it's just so comfortable you don't want to have to develop your own.

Novels are more difficult simply because they are longer and require more juggling, but short stories are closer to perfection, if you can get the language right.

Ultimately, you can only ever write what you know. It's logically and philosophically impossible to write what you don't know.

Sometimes, in life, nothing happens. But, sometimes, nothing happens beautifully.

I grew up sort of middle class, safe and suburban.