You always find things you didn't know you were going to say, and that is the adventure.

There is no pleasing New Englanders, my dear, their soil is all rocks and their hearts are bloodless absolutes.

I never made a decision in my life that wasn't one hundred per cent selfish.

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

We are each of us like our little blue planet, hung in black space, upheld by nothing but our mutual reassurances, our loving lies.

I like old men. They can be wonderful bastards because they have nothing to lose. The only people who can be themselves are babies and old bastards.

The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.