I never saw any of my dad's stories. My mother said he had piles and piles of manuscripts.

To write is human, to edit is divine.

Did-a-chick? Dum-a-chum? Dad-a-cham? Ded-a-chek?

He sat upon his throne, which is made of skulls.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why.

It was life, often unsatisfying, frequently cruel, usually boring, sometimes beautiful, once in a while exhilarating.

He would write it for the reason he felt that all great literature, fiction and nonfiction, was written: truth comes out, in the end it always comes out. He would write it because he felt he had to.