When I write about a 15-year old, I jump, I return to the days when I was that age. It's like a time machine. I can remember everything. I can feel the wind. I can smell the air. Very actually. Very vividly.

Her cry was the saddest sound of orgasm that I had ever heard.

Maybe working on the little things as dutifully and honestly as we can is how we stay sane when the world is falling apart.

One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds

I was enjoying myself writing, because I don't know what's going to happen when I take a ride around that corner. You don't know at all what you're going to find there. That can be thrilling when you read a book, especially when you're a kid and you're reading stories.

Become like a sheet of blotting paper and soak it all in. Later on you can figure out what to keep and what to unload.

Even when I ran my bar I followed the same policy. A lot of customers came to the bar. If one in ten enjoyed the place and said he'd come again, that was enough. If one out of ten was a repeat customer, then the business would survive. To put it another way, it didn't matter if nine out of ten didn't like my bar. This realization lifted a weight off my shoulders. Still, I had to make sure that the one person who did like the place.