I like to reserve the right to write about whatever I like.

Real love amounts to withholding the truth, even when you're offered the perfect opportunity to hurt someone's feelings.

At first, writing for The New Yorker was very scary to me. I couldn't imagine anything that I would write in that typeface.

But I don't distinguish between being laughed with, and laughed at. I'll take either.

I've often lost faith in myself, I've never lost it in my family.

Anyone who watches even the slightest amount of TV is familiar with the scene: An agent knocks on the door of some seemingly ordinary home or office. The door opens, and the person holding the knob is asked to identify himself. The agent then says, "I'm going to ask you to come with me.

Speed eliminates all doubt. Am I smart enough? Will people like me? Do I really look all right in this plastic jumpsuit?