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

We chart delusions through collective agreement.

I've always thought of wholeness and integration as necessary myths. We're gragmented beings who cement ourselves together, but there are always cracks. Living with the cracks is part of being, well, reasonably healthy.

Human beings are repetitive animals. All meaning is generated through repetition.

Good books, written by men or women, are ones in which you lose consciousness of the person writing the sentences.

Ture stories can't be told forward, only backward. We invent them from the vantage point of an ever-changing present and tell ourselves how they unfolded.

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