I'll always be working on five things at once, usually with those documents open at the same time because if I get stuck somewhere I'll jump over to something else. That's how my head has always worked.

Every time my brain parks the car neatly in the driveway, my mouth drives through the back of the garage.

We would oppose the turning of the planet and refuse the setting of the sun.

When there is pleasure, there is often abandon, and mistakes are made.

One might think that a boy who was out in the snow for so long would get cold, but Max was not. He was warm, partly because he had on many layers, and partly because boys who are part wolf and part wind do not get cold.

I've purposely stayed away from reading much about postmodern theory, and most everything I have read just bored me to tears. I don't think anybody's written about it, or very few have, with any verve.

My head was a condemned church with a ceiling of bats, but I swung from this dark mood to euphoria when I thought about leaving.