It's music rage, which is like road rage, only more righteous. When you get road rage, a tiny part of you knows you're being a jerk, but when you get music rage, you're carrying out the will of God, and God wants these people dead.

I don't believe in Heaven or anything. But I want to be the kind of person that qualifies for entry anyway.

She was trying to say something else; she was trying to say that the inability to articulate what one feels in any satisfactory way is one of our enduring tragedies. It wouldn't have been much, and it wouldn't have been useful, but it would have been something that reflected the gravity and the sadness inside her. Instead, she had snapped at him for being a loser. It was as if she were trying to find a handhold on the boulder of her feelings, and had merely ended up with grit under her nails.

But I suspect that all writers come up with premises of some kind, fragments of narrative or scenarios, in the course of a working week.

(about organizing books in his home library, and putting a book in the "Arts and Lit non-fiction section) I personally find that for domestic purposes, the Trivial Pursuit system works better than Dewey.

But then, that was the trouble with relationships generally. They had their own temperature and there was no thermostat.

You're not allowed to say anything about books because they're books, and books are, you know, God.