Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else.

I felt, as I became a later and later bloomer, alienated not just from my own recalcitrant glabrous little body but in a way from the whole elemental exterior I'd come to see as my co-conspirator.

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

This might be one way to start talking about differences between the early postmodern writers of the fifties and sixties and their contemporary descendants.

...the sun would leave my sky if I couldn't assume you'd simply come and tell me you were sad.

For those who've never experienced a sunrise in the rural midwest, it's roughly as soft and romantic as someone's abruptly hitting the lights in a dark room.

Dostoevski informs everybody; or he ought to.