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

Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody's head off.

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.

It strikes me that whatever advantages there are to being a boy--getting to stay out late and having other people wash your clothes and bring you plates of stuff--get undercut by having to play football.

I don't think I look like the pope's favorite Catholic - at least not under close scrutiny.

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.

For me, everything's too much and nothing's enough.