Just the act of sleeping beside someone you liked to be with. Maybe that was love.

Books light the fire-whether it's a book that's already written, or an empty journal that needs to be filled in.

The generation that had information, but no context. Butter, but no bread. Craving, but no longing.

You had only one chance for a signature in life, but most people left no impression.

The minute you had kids you closed ranks. You didn't plan this in advance, but it happened. Families were like individual, discrete, moated island nations. The little group of citizens on the slab of rock gathered together instinctively, almost defensively, and everyone who was outside the walls—even if you'd once been best friends—was now just that, outsiders.

We do seem, as a culture, to fetishize the "sweep." But I know there's room for "big" short, fierce novels, and "big" solid ones.

Everybody has a theme. You talk to somebody awhile, and you realize they have one particular thing that rules them. The best you can do is a variation on the theme, but that's about it.