If you've never wept and want to, have a child.

If Realism called it like it saw it, Metafiction simply called it as it saw itself seeing itself see it.

There's a weird kind of paradox that the more expensive the vacation is, the more potentially anxiety-producing it is.

Dostoevski informs everybody; or he ought to.

You have to understand, writing a novel gets very weird and invisible-friend-from-childhood-ish. Then you kill that thing, which was never really alive except in your imagination, and you're supposed to go buy groceries and talk to people at parties and stuff.

Do this: hate him for me after I die. I beg you. Dying request.

The other half is to dramatize the fact that we still "are" human beings, now. Or can be.