I did think reviewers were supposed to be polite about story collections - collections are rather delicate creatures in the literary environment - but not everybody got this memo, I guess.

Those are the love killers. They love you and then they kill you. They're from another planet. Supposedly.

If God Speaks Through Burning Bushes, Let's Burn Bush and Listen to What God Says.

I've come to realize that life, while being everything, is also strangely not much. Except when the light shines on it a different way and then you realize it's a lot after all!

I would never understand photography, the sneaky, murderous taxidermy of it.

Her life her life had taken on the shape of a terrible mistake. She hadn't been given the proper tools to make a real life with, she decided, that was it. She'd been given a can of gravy and a hair-brush and told, "There you go." She'd stood there for years, blinking and befuddled, brushing the can with the brush.

Perhaps we had at last reached that stage of intimacy that destroys intimacy.