Everybody has a gun in their car in Detroit.

I used to get criticized for putting food in novels.

Sometimes the only answer to death is lunch.

Wherever we go we do harm, forgiving ourselves as wheels do cement for wearing each other out. We set this house on fire, forgetting that we live within. (from "To a Meadowlark," for M.L. Smoker)

The only advice I can give to aspiring writers is don't do it unless you're willing to give your whole life to it. Red wine and garlic also helps.

I can maintain my sense of the sacredness of existence only by understanding my own limitations and losing my self-importance.

The world that used to nurse us now keeps shouting inane instructions. That's why I ran to the woods.