And this wasn’t lying, not really. It was leaving out.

Home is watching the moon rise over the open, sleeping land and having someone you can call to the window, so you can look together. Home is where you dance with others, and dancing is life.

If life teaches anything at all it teaches that there are so many happy endings that the man who believes that there is no God needs his rationality called into serious question.

If you can't laugh when things go bad--laugh and put on a little carnival--then you're either dead or wishing you were.

The bad ideas kind of just drop out of the mix. You forget about them. The good ones stick around.

I understand that each one of us works at a different speed, and has a slightly different process. I understand that these writers are painstaking, wanting each sentence-each word-to carry weight... I know it’s not laziness, but respect for the work, and I understand from my own work that haste makes waste. But I also understand that life is short, and that in the end, none of us is prolific. The creative spark dims, and then death puts it out. William Shakespeare, for instance, hasn’t produced a new play for 400 years. That, my friends, is a long dry spell.

I watched Titanic when I got back home from the hospital, and cried. I knew that my IQ had been damaged.