Every now and then we enter the presence of the numinous and deduce for an instant how we're formed, in what detail the force that infuses every petal might specifically run through us, wishing only to lure us into our full potential.

Ten years, she's dead, and I still find myself some mornings reaching for the phone to call her. She could no more be gone than gravity or the moon.

He never gave up on me, I only stopped being matriculated.

I get about five memoirs per week in my mailbox, and few of them inspire anything but a desire to pick up the channel changer.

Childhood was terrifying for me. A kid has no control. You’re three feet tall, flat broke, unemployed, and illiterate. Terror snaps you awake. You pay keen attention. People can just pick you up and move you and put you down.

I get so lonely sometimes, I could put a box on my head and mail myself to a stranger.

I do have a really good memory. I mean, like, I can remember all the phone numbers of everybody on the street I grew up on.