Clockers" asks--almost in passing, and there's a lot more to it than this--a pretty interesting question: if you choose to work for the minimum wage when everyone around you is pocketing thousands from drug deals, then what does that do to you, to your head and to your heart? (Hornby's thoughts after reading "Clockers" by Richard Price)

It takes a child to say the unsayable.

Everyone knows how to talk, and no one knows what to say.

We're here for such a short amount of time. Why do we spend any of it building sandcastles?

I'm a good person. In most ways. But I'm beginning to think that being a good person in most ways doesn't count for anything very much, if you're a bad person in one way.

It's often the way that people who take their work seriously laugh at stupid jokes; it's as if they are under-humored and, as a consequence, suffer from premature laugh-ejaculation.

I don't think you can call it stalking when it's just phone calls and letters and emails and knocking on the door.