People? People are chaotic quiddities living in one cave each. They pass the hours in amorous grudge and playback and thought experiment. At the campfire they put the usual fraction on exhibit, and listen to their own silent gibber about how they're feeling and how they're going down. We've been there. Death helps. Death gives us something to do. Because it's a fulltime job looking the other way.

...So in his own way Guy Clinch confronted the central question of his time, a question you saw being asked and answered everywhere you looked, in every headline and haircut: if, at any moment, nothing might matter, then who said that nothing didn't matter already?

I would never write about someone that forced me to write at a lower register than what I can write.

To idealize: all writing is a campaign against cliché. Not just clichés of the pen but clichés of the mind and clichés of the heart.

I want incremental improvements. There's the record of all the revolutionary and violent change and extremism in general - it's dreadful.

Each life is a game of chess that went to hell on the seventh move(...)

While making love, we often talk about money. I like it. I like that dirty talk