It's a common feeling for people to feel intermittent antipathy toward individuals they're familiar with.

We're living longer, we social network alone with our screens, and our depth of feeling gets shallower. Soon it'll be nothing but a tide pool, then a thimble of water, then a micro drop.

I hate to think of a day where a compelling book or a compelling authorial voice would be lost simply because that person doesn't have a Web site. But I think that, to use the Internet in a positive way, to turn people on to reading, is something that authors shouldn't really shy away from necessarily.

Just when you think you've hit rock bottom, you realize you're standing on another trapdoor.

It’s hard, in America, not to equate ‘happiness’ with ‘things’.

Because every one of us has our box, a dark chamber stowing the thing that lanced our heart. It contains what you do everything for, strive for, wound everything around you.

You journalists bulldoze life's mysteries, ignorant of what you're so ruthlessly turning up.