Basketball allowed me to revere my father without him knowing what I was up to. I took up basketball as a form of homage and mimicry.

I wrote to explain my own life to myself, stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.

One does not know where love will take you.

Families without songs are unhappy families.

My mother thought of my father as half barbarian and half blunt instrument, and she isolated him from his children.

Books are living things and their task lies in their vows of silence. You touch them as they quiver with a divine pleasure. You read them and they fall asleep to happy dreams for the next 10 years. If you do them the favor of understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart.

Losing prepares you for the heartbreak, setback, and the tragedy that you will encounter in the world more than winning ever can. By licking your wounds you learn how to avoid getting wounded the next time.