Mario, what do you get when you cross an insomniac, an unwilling agnostic and a dyslexic?

One paradox of professional writing is that books written solely for money and/or acclaim will almost never be good enough to garner either.

I read," I say. "I study and read. I bet I've read everything you read. Don't think I haven't. I consume libraries. I wear out spines and ROM-drives. I do things like get in a taxi and say, "The library, and step on it." My instincts concerning syntax and mechanics are better than your own, I can tell, with all due respect. But it transcends the mechanics. I'm not a machine. I feel and believe. I have opinions. Some of them are interesting. I could, if you'd let me, talk and talk.

I think it's easy to stop smoking; it's just hard not to commit a felony after you stop.

I have always tried to avoid talking to pretty girls, because pretty girls have a vicious effect on me in which every part of my brain is shut down except for the part that says unbelievably stupid things and the part that is aware that I am saying unbelievably stupid things.

The desire for perfect release and the real-world impossibility of perfect, whenever-you-want-it release had together produced a tension they could no longer stand.

The parts of me that used to think I was different or smarter or whatever, almost made me die.