What a generous thing that is, I realize, for a husband to try to make his wife laugh.

I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.

To me, marriage is the ultimate mystery.

I feel like I need to give people a note with the book that says, 'I'm OK, no worries!'

And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don't have genuine souls.

There's no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. The world will always want a drink.

There are no really new stories anymore.