Our relationship wasn't the sun, the moon, the stars, but it wasn't bullshit, either.

I think a lot of the most interesting immigrant writing involves stepping outside of that old, dreary binary. Chang-rae Lee's Native Speaker is a great example. Same goes for Maxine Hong Kingston's The Woman Warrior.

Used to be in the old days, only the pulp writers wrote like machines. Now everybody is expected to be literary John Henrys. So in that context someone like me is an anomaly.

Tell her that you love her hair, that you love her skin, her lips, because, in truth, you love them more than you love your own.

You can't be a human without seeing.

If you were a nerd computer geek in 1982, the amount of isolation you felt - at least what I experienced, or the kids I knew, the isolation they felt - was almost total. They were not part of society; no one thought they were cool.

Clavo saca clavo. Nothing sacas nothing, you reply. No one will ever be like her.