I've been writing about James Fenimore Cooper. He was not a writer. Here was a man who was 30 years old and had never put anything more than his signature on paper.

Jane Austen is at the end of the line that begins with Samuel Richardson, which takes wonder and magic out of the novel, treats not the past but the present.

I admire Ginsberg as a poet, despite the fact that he seems not to know when he is being good and when he is bad. But he will last, or at least those poems will last.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's somebody doing something because I pushed them in that direction.

I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love.

I used to be fond of Indian arm wrestling.

I have, I admit, a low tolerance for detached chronicling and cool analysis.