I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next.

Say heat. Say wet between my legs. Say legs. Seriously, I want you to. Stockings. Whisper it. The word is meant to be whispered.

To portray America over the past twenty years or so, I would think immediately of football, probably the Super Bowl in its sumptuous suggestion of a national death wish.

A mystery novel localizes the awesome force of the real death outside the book, winds it tightly in a plot.

I am not comfortable with abstract writing, stories that look like essays: you have to see, I need to see.

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.

the instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms