I talk in subjects and verbs, and sort of wind around in concentric circles until I get far enough away from the beginning so that I can call it the end, and it ends.

I don't have a great eye for detail. I leave blanks in all of my stories. I leave out all detail, which leaves the reader to fill in something better.

... life itself is brief, and that is what charges the day with such ridiculous beauty.

They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad that I'm going to miss mine by just a few days.

Marrying for sex is like flying to London for the free peanuts and pretzels. It's not the point of the thing, is it?

I write for a radio show that, no matter what, will go on the air Saturday at five o'clock central time. You learn to write toward that deadline, to let the adrenaline pick you up on Friday morning and carry you through, to cook up a monologue about Lake Wobegon and get to the theater on time.

Second violins can play a concerto perfectly if they're in their own home and nobody's there.