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.

Good artists exist in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are.

I think almost every writer in the world would hope that books would be always talked about with respect and civility and depth and seriousness.

But the grind has begun. The windows don’t open, and even the availability of near-constant jokes about Jews and Mormons fails to stem the tide of frustration, decay. We’ve reached the end of pure inspiration, and are now somewhere else, something implying routine, or doing something because people expect us to do it, going somewhere each day because we went there the day before, saying things because we have said them before, and this seems like the work of a different sort of animal, contrary to our plan, and this is very very bad.

But what I really want is to just swim around in a warm baby pool of these friends, jump in their dry leaf pile-to rub them all over myself, without words and clothes.

You know, it's been proven that 35 to 40 hours a year with one-on-one attention, a student can get one grade level higher

But I'm thinking about 12 things at once, a hundred thousand times a day. Most people do, I would imagine.