I have a theory... that someplace at the heart of most compelling stories is something that doesn't make sense.

Only sometimes you can't feel anything about a subject without hypothesizing its extinction.

What was our life like? I almost don't remember now. Though I remember it, the space of time it occupied. And I remember it fondly.

Even though I get a lot done with my solitude, and I make the best use of it possible, I always think solitude is an interlude in a period of time, which is populated by others.

I wouldn't be a very good writer if someone hadn't taught me how to read.

Someone wanted me to write a profile for ESPN about the commissioner of baseball, and I said, "He's just some suit! Some Republican. No!" I mean if you want me to write about baseball, boxing or football, I'll write about those things because I watch them, I think about them a lot and I like them. But I don't want to write about Barry Bonds.

America beats on you so hard the whole time. You are constantly being pummeled by other people's rights and their sense of patriotism.