Love is the ultimate outlaw.

We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.

I have always been a romantic, one of those people who believes that a woman in pink circus tights contains all the secrets of the universe.

I show up in my writing room at approximately 10 A.M. every morning without fail. Sometimes my muse sees fit to join me there and sometimes she doesn't, but she always knows where I'll be. She doesn't need to go hunting in the taverns or on the beach or drag the boulevard looking for me.

The theme of corporate stories (and millions drink them in every day) seldom varies: to be happy you must consume, to be special you must conform. Absurd, obviously, yet our identities have become so fragile, so elusive, that we seem content to let advertisers provide us with their version of who we are, to let them recreate us in their image: a cookie-cutter image based on market research, shallow sociology, and insidious lies.

I am cheerful. I don't know if I'm happy. There is a difference, you know.

Here's an idea: let's get over ourselves, buy a cherry pie, and go fall in love with life.