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.

Having lost people when they were young, you feel intimately acquainted with mortality, I guess. Though I procrastinate worse than anybody.

At that moment I was sure. That I belonged in my skin. That my organs were mine and my eyes were mine and my ears, which could only hear the silence of this night and my faint breathing, were mine, and I loved them and what they could do.

How had this happened? Everyone in the world knew more than us, about everything, and this I hated then found hugely comforting.

It's not that our family has no taste, it's just that our family's taste is inconsistent.

Then he got more books. He saved all the books.

I think there's a future where the Web and print coexist and they each do things uniquely and complement each other, and we have what could be the ultimate and best-yet array of journalistic venues.