All men are mortal, and therefore all men are losers; our profoundest loyalty goes out to the failed.

When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but to a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teen-aged boy finding them, and having them speak to him. The review, the stacks in Brentano's, are just hurdles to get over, to place the books on that shelf.

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

Life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews.

Everybody who tells you how to act has whiskey on their breath.

I once did something right. I played first-rate basketball. I really did. And after you're first-rate at something, no matter what, it kind of takes the kick out of being second-rate.

The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.