I think we rarely recognize the fifth business in our lives at the time those people are changing us.

I realized the shells were talking in a voice I recognized. I should have; it was my own. Had I always known that? I suppose I had. On some level, unless we're mad, I think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations. And of our memories, of course. They have voices, too. Ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. Ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant (an instant that is most commonly red). Our memories have voices, too. Often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.

God pisses down the back of your neck every day but only drowns you once.

Above, the stars shone hard and bright, sparks struck off the dark skin of the universe.

Hurt's a reason to change, but all the hurt in the world don't change facts.

My wife says, and I agree with her, that what would be really great for Maine would be to legalize dope completely and set up dope stores the way that there are state-run liquor stores. You could get your Acapulco gold or your whatever it happened to be - your Augusta gold or your Bangor gold. And people would come from all the other states to buy it, and there could be a state tax on it. Then everybody in Maine could have a Cadillac.

A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.