Crippled and crazy, we hobble toward the finish line, pen in hand.

Every painting is always two paintings: The one you see, and the one you remember.

We chart delusions through collective agreement.

Like countless first-year medical students, immersed in the symptoms of one disease after another, I am alert to the tingles and pangs, the throbs and quivers of my mortal body, each one of which is potentially a sign of the end.

Writing fiction is like remembering what never happened.

Every sickness has an alien quality, a feeling of invasion and loss of control that is evident in the language we use about it.

The fictive is an emormous territory it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it begins and ends.