The first seven years that I wrote fiction, I sent out stories and a novel and made a total of $25.

And if a moment exists only in one's perception anyway, then perhaps the rush of feeling he has now is THE MOMENT, and not merely its shadow.

I don't know a family that isn't touched by some sort of addiction.

I doubt the terrorists saw 9/11 as a teaching opportunity. And we're not really a culture geared to anything as humble as 'learning.' But I was disappointed in how quickly everyone wanted to get back to normal. It was as if we watched terrorism on TV for a while, then got bored and turned back to 'American Idol.'

The stories tend to be what I work on when I'm stuck. Something will just pop into my head and I'll think that's more of a story.

Life, he thought, is a blatant act of imagination.

At peace? Who but the insane would ever be at peace? What person who has enjoyed life could possibly think one is enough? Who could live even a day and not feel the sweet ache of regret?