Don’t complain, don’t explain.

That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.

Art doesn't have to do anything. It just has to be there for the fierce pleasure we take in doing it.

There was this funny thing of anything could happen now that we realized everything had.

Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.

Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.

Remember Haydn's 104 symphonies. Not all of them were great. But there were 104 of them.