The integrity of my sleep has been forever compromised, sir.

I miss everyone. I can remember being young and feeling a thing and identifying it as homesickness, and then thinking well now that’s odd, isn’t it, because I was home, all the time. What on earth are we to make of that?

Nothing brings you together like a common enemy.

To make someone an icon is to make him an abstraction, and abstractions are incapable of vital communication with living people.

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

I had, by thirteen, developed a sort of Taoist hubris about my ability to control via non-control.

I often think I can see it in myself and in other young writers, this desperate desire to please coupled with a kind of hostility to the reader.