In these silences something may rise

Any thoughts of guilt, any feelings of regret, had faded. The desert had baked them out.

I was in enough to get along with people. I was never socially inarticulate. Not a loner. And that saved my life, saved my sanity. That and the writing. But to this day I distrust anybody who thought school was a good time. Anybody.

For men, I think, love is a thing formed of equal parts lust and astonishment. The astonishment part women understand. The lust part they only think they understand.

...my basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much make themselves.

Well, I'm like a drug addict, I'm always saying I'm going to stop, and then I don't, what I've said consistently is that I hope I know when to stop: when it starts to get repetitive.

What happens to the wide-eyed observer when the window between reality and unreality breaks and the glass begins to fly?