I bought an energy bar, and as I ate it a great weariness came over me.

People gave names to things so they could tell stories about them, goddam fairy tales about children who got out alive.

I felt as though I were snorting cocaine, or rappelling down a cliffside, or cliffsurfing off a cliff of pure cocaine.

You think you know yourself, the world. You believe you've got a bead on everybody else's bullshit, but what about your own?

Kamby Bolongo Mean River is an original and fearless fiction. It bears genetic traces of Beckett and Stein, but Robert Lopez's powerful cadences and bleak, joyful wit are all his own.

I knew I was in the vicinity of a serious lesson, if not about how to live life, then at least how to put some poetry into your craven retreat from it.

Write what you know. Write what you don't know. But most of all, write what you'd rather not know.