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.

Certain sincerely devout and spiritually advanced people believe that the God of their understanding helps them find parking places and gives them advice on Mass. Lottery numbers.

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece electrostatic / And everywhere Mary went, the lights became erratic.

Does somebody have an explanation why there's human flesh on the hall window upstairs?

God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about.

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

Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.