I think maybe writers come from different planets. I mean, not in any sense as extravagant as Baryshnikov. But there are some writers who understand each other this way and others who understand each other that way. Then there's this great herd, the "herd of independent minds."

I love the laconic. Clearly, I am not of their number.

Bored people, unless they sleep a lot, are cruel.

Nothing defines the quality of life in a community more clearly than people who regard themselves, or whom the consensus chooses to regard, as mentally unwell.

Writing about writing is a bit like talking about a conversation you are having; it tends to obscure desperation about where the next word is coming from.

Do you realize how angry you sound?” must be one of the most infuriating questions in the language.

There follows a little obscenity here, a dash of philosophy there, considerable whining overall, and a modern satirical novel is born.