I looked back at some of my earlier published stories with genuine horror and remorse. I got thinking, How many extant copies might there be, who owns them, and do they keep their doors locked?

I've never written nearly as much about place as people seem to think I do. I just write about class.

I can be glib and truthful all at once.

I was the one who did come through that door. You were the one she was waiting for.

I just have this feeling that if it weren't for the Gloversville Free Library that I probably would not be a writer.

One of the odd things about middle age, he concluded, was the strange decisions a man discovers he's made by not really making them, like allowing friends to drift away through simple neglect.

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?