Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.

When you say nasty things about people, you should never say the true ones, because you can't really fully and honestly take those back.

Books are the ultimate Dumpees: put them down and they’ll wait for you forever; pay attention to them and they always love you back.

I'm not saying it was your fault. I'm saying it wasn't nice.

I kept it for myself like a keepsake, as if sharing the memory might lead to its dissipation.

And so that is the question I leave you with in this final: What is your cause for hope?

I'm not from Indianapolis, but I like living in Indianapolis. If I were to explain it, I'd tell someone to imagine a city that perfectly captures the best and the worst of America. Imagine the truly American city, because that's what it is.