That's not writing, that's typing

The way his plump hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically.

I'll pay you a million dollars if you tell your life story for true.

That isn't writing at all, it's typing.

She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox. In this case, as opposed to the scrupulous method of good taste and scientific grooming, the trick had been worked by exaggerating defects; she'd made them ornamental by admitting them boldly.

When seriously explored, the short story seems to me the most difficult and disciplining form of prose writing extant. Whatever control and technique I may have I owe entirely to my training in this medium.

I live in Brooklyn. By choice. Those ignorant of its allures are entitled to wonder why.