Oh, save me God, but not quite yet.

I venture that those of us who are most serene when faced with the possibility of nothingness are the ones who've reached furthest to the downward and upward of their beings.

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.

one forgives parents as naturally as one emancipates oneself from them - usually shortly afterward.

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

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.

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