A computer and a cat are somewhat alike - they both purr, and like to be stroked, and spend a lot of the day motionless. They also have secrets they don't necessarily share.

I would especially like to re-court the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.

I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head.

The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding.

Adversity in immunological doses has its uses; more than that crushes.

Inspiration arrives as a packet of material to be delivered.

Fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that Mankind has invented yet.