It takes a lot of energy and creativity to make such screwed up lives carry on. And the kind of will people have to survive, year after year, dealing with that stuff, is weirdly impressive.

There are so many people in the world, and I want to know them all but I don’t even know my next-door neighbor’s name.

Now that I've had a book published, it is quite validating, but a bit embarrassing.

I wonder how many ways there are for a mother to produce that wreckage in her own daughter, and my muscles tense as I think of them.

I once saw a picture in the paper of John Hegley with 'poet' written on his knuckles, and I thought that was pretty cool, so I was quite up front about it.

It is something I recognise in myself. I do eavesdrop. I do people-watch, a lot.

If nobody speaks of remarkable things, how can they be called remarkable?