All our parents have levels of deviousness. We're driven to write about this discrepancy between the bright shining selves they invented and the monsters lurking underneath.

If I were ever to go mad it would be on Thanksgiving Day, that day of guilt and grace when the family hangs upon you like an ax over a sacrificial victim, like the oven's heat on that poor bird.

Oh, save me God, but not quite yet.

We write out of revenge against reality, to dream and enter the lives of others.

Only friends will tell you the truths you need to hear to make your life bearable.

I was just reviewed by Robert Gottlieb, who was my editor at 'The New Yorker,' and he sort of wondered at the fact that I still need to exorcise my parents at my age. I think he makes a basic mistake in thinking that exorcism can ever be total. The exorcism of your parents will still be occurring on your own deathbed.

One learns much more by writing fiction, because the insights come from those deeper subconscious levels where the greater and more interesting truths lie.