It is one of the peculiar truths of life that people often say things that they know full well are ridiculous.

It's funny, particularly when you're a writer and you're doing well, you have that sense of like, "Oh! My view of the world is the one that's going to be published."

Everything else has vanished, so you take them now. Maybe if you're the one keeping them, I'll be the one feeling better.

The Violins waltzed. The Cellos and Basses provided accompaniment. The Violas mourned their fate, while the Concertmaster showed off. The Flutes did bird imitations…repeatedly, and the reed instruments had the good taste to admire my jacket. The Trumpets held a parade in honor of our great nation, while the French Horns waxed nostalgic about something or other. The Trombones had too much to drink. The Percussion beat the band, and the Tuba stayed home playing cards with his landlady, the Harp, taking sips of warm milk a blue little cup. “But the Composer is still dead.

Writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day.

If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats.

Literature doesn’t exactly have a strong mental-health track record.