We can rarely tell others what we really think about them--not just because it would so wound them, but also because it would so wound ourselves.

We all want to fix things. Just as we all believe that so much in life can be rectified. Mend fences, build bridges, reach out, engage in mutual healing.

Words matter, words have import.

Success is a very fragile veneer. I get wary of people who embrace celebrity. It ruins people.

All our stories are simultaneously unique and desperately similar, aren't they?

Because there is no meaning to be found in the arbitrary nature of things., It's all random. Just as space is blue. And birds fly through it.

With a novel, no matter where I am in it, I'm fretting about it. Every time I write a book, it starts with great forward momentum. Then there seems to be a period where it slows down a bit, and other things intervene. Then I gain momentum.