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.

Art is both a vengeance against reality and a reconciliation with it.

The irreversibility of time. That's the hardest thing to accept at our age, that's the most violent aspect of death.

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.

Friendship is by its very nature freer of deceit than any other relationship we can know because it is the bond least affected by striving for power, physical pleasure, or material profit, most liberated from any oath of duty or of constancy. With Eros the body stands naked, in friendship our spirit is denuded.

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

Oh, save me God, but not quite yet.