I think the "crime novel" has replaced the sociological novel of the 1930s. I think the progenitor of that tradition is James M. Cain, who in my view is the most neglected writer in American literature.

If you put somebody on a crack pipe and give them a 9 mm Baretta, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what's going to happen next.

I feel blessed in the knowledge that I probably belong to the last generation that will remember what we call "traditional America."

Success, like fashion, is a fickle companion and can leave one in the wink of an eye.

And every good artist knows that the gift comes from somewhere else, and it's there for a reason, and that's to make the world a better place.

If we break promises to God, shouldn't we be allowed an occasional violation of our word to our friends and superiors?

Why do I always feel like you're trying to staple my umbilical cord to the corner of your desk?