It's not tipping I believe in. It's overtipping.

[her] mind blackens. The blackness is not a thought, but if it could be pressed into a thought, if a chemical from a dropper could be dripped onto it causing its color and essence to become visible, it would take the shape of this sentence: Why does no one want me?

Teaching is, after all, a form of show business.

Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.

I like a woman with a head on her shoulders. I hate necks.

Writer's block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol.

She looked down again and I was stymied. I sat. Oh, this was enough to make me love her, because I was right with her, understanding every second and longing to step in. I didn’t even need to know the specific that was troubling her, because to me her halting voice easily stood for the general woe that hangs in the air, even on life’s happiest days.