Down in the city are the nice houses and the so-so houses and the lovers making out in dark yards and the babies crying for their moms, and I wonder if, other than Jesus, has this ever happened before. Maybe it happens all the time. Maybe there's angry dead all over, hiding in rooms, covered with blankets, bossing around their scared, embarrassed relatives. Because how would we know?

The millions or billions of micro decisions that you're going to make, that's what will determine who you are as a writer, not you deciding in advance.

There's a really nice moment in the life of a piece of writing where the writer starts to get a feeling of it outgrowing him - or he starts to see it having a life of its own that doesn't have anything to do with his ego or his desire to 'be a good writer'.

For me, things were either very sullied or very pure, very controlled or very under-controlled.

I remember reading The Bluest Eye when I was a young parent, and something opened in me. That's the highest aspiration.

Compassion doesn't have to be weak or enabling; it can also be quite bold.

I think the biggest single issue is income inequity and what this is doing to the good old "American dream." This and corporatism - this delusional idea that "shareholder value" outweighs everything else.