The writer can only explore the inner space of his characters by perceptively navigating his own.

We are nothing but a string of gut on a stick of bone riding this piece of astral soot for one piteous splinter of eternity.

This human nature is shabby stuff, as you may know from introspection.

A suburban mother's role is to deliver children obstetrically once, and by car forever after.

The tuba is certainly the most intestinal of instruments, the very lower bowel of music.

Try the Lamentations of Jeremiah. They always pick me up.

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.