It is a special kind of homelessness to be evicted from your dreams.

What passes for news is just morbid speculation or cartoonish screaming, followed by diaper commercials.

In a way, I think we all want to look to that journalistic voice as a kind of global omniscience, a big eye to correct for our own limited purview: "Here's a realistic accounting of the world in which we live."

I do think that I have a more flexible view of the interactions between people, and between human and non-human protagonists, humans and their landscapes.

It was sad and fierce all at once, alive with a lonely purity.

Fiction helps me to reconnect with the true, deep weirdness inherent in everyday reality, in our dealings with one another, in just being alive.

A food truce, the picnic suspension of oedipal feeling that permits the generations to love each other at family reunions.