Meet me in Cognito, baby. In Cognito, we'll have nothing to hide.

People of ze wurl, relax!

The sky was the color of Edgar Allan Poe's pajamas.

Of course I'm inconsistent! Only logicians and cretins are consistent!

Rivers are the primal highways of life. From the crack of time, they had borne men's dreams, and in their lovely rush to elsewhere, fed our wanderlust, mimicked our arteries, and charmed our imaginations in a way the static pond or vast and savage ocean never could.

For most people, self-awareness and self-pity blossom simultaneously in early adolescence. It's about that time that we start viewing the world as something other than a whoop-de-doo playground, we start to experience personally how threatening it can be, how cruel and unjust. At the very moment when we become, for the first time, both introspective and socially conscientious, we receive the bad news that the world, by and large, doesn't give a rat's ass.

Writing a novel is not so much a project as a journey, a voyage, an adventure.