You cannot but learn more of the world's heft, as you take it now into your hands.

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark. Everything is painted green and seems in curiously sharp focus, like the inside of an old-fashioned peeping-type Easter egg.

The illusion is an agreement between the reader and writer that this [story] will be like life. The emotional temperature drops when you have footnotes.

I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.

The heart prefers to move against the grain of circumstance; perversity is the souls very life.

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again.

One does not go to Moscow to get fat.