One of the odd things about being a writer is that you never reach a point of certainty, a point of mastery where you can say, Right. Now I understand how this is done.

When God is a father, he is said to be elsewhere. When God is a mother, she is said to be everywhere.

The reason to have a home is to keep certain people in and everyone else out.

A thought experiment courtesy of the Stoics. If you are tired of everything you possess, imagine that you have lost all these things.

My plan was to never get married. I was going to be an art monster instead. Women almost never become art monsters because art monsters only concern themselves with art, never mundane things. Nabokov didn't even fold his own umbrella. Vera licked his stamps for him.

Also she signed away the right to self-destruct years ago. The fine print on the birth certificate, her friends call it.

For years, I kept a Post-it note above my desk. WORK NOT LOVE! was what it said. It seemed a sturdier kind of happiness.