There's a socialist bias to the consensus of the literary world: a '30s mentality that says factory workers are more worthy of our attention.

Most of the people I write about have been ambitious outlanders who have been attracted to New York from other parts of the world.

I'd like to have the kind of house someday where a carousel horse wouldn't be out of place in the living room.

What I'm nostalgic for is the idea of an edge in New York. There used to be these fringes of the city where civilization sort of ended, and therefore young people could live cheaply, or open nightclubs or art galleries, or even squat. That fringe moved out to New Jersey and Brooklyn. The whole idea of the metropolis is the centralization of like-minded souls, and when the central real estate becomes too expensive, the dreamers, the young poets, and the artists will go elsewhere.

Tim Thornton's portrait of a pop culture obsession is so convincing that one can't help wishing that his fictional alt rock band actually existed, or suspecting that they did. The Alternative Hero is a weirdly compelling portrait of fanatic fandom which reads like High Fidelity at high volume.

A modest critique of an age in which an actor is the President, in which fashion models are asked for their opinions, in which getting into a nightclub is seen as a significant human achievement.

When you catch yourself lying to your therapist, you know it's a waste of money.