As I drift back into sleep, I can't help thinking that it's a wonderful thing to be right about the world. To weigh the evidence, always incomplete, and correctly intuit the whole, to see the world in a grain of sand, to recognize its beauty, its simplicity, its truth. It's as close as we get to God in this life, and reside in the glow of such brief flashes of understanding, fully awake, sometimes for two or three seconds, at peace with our existence. And then back to sleep we go.

What if all everybody needed in the world was to be sure of one friend? What if you were the one, and you refused to say those simple words?

People who imagine themselves to be self-made seldom enjoy examining the process of manufacture in detail.

Knowing and knowing what to do about it were two different things.

A lot of my characters in all of my books have a self-destructive urge. They'll do precisely the thing that they know is wrong, take a perverse delight in doing the wrong thing.

HBO is really famous for hiring good people and staying out of their way until they ask for help, or need it. And that reputation is earned.

Odd that the future should be so difficult to bring into focus when the past, uninvited, offered itself up so easily for inspection.