Other people, so I have read, treasure memorable moments in their lives: the time one climbed the Parthenon at sunrise, the summer night one met a lonely girl in Central Park and achieved with her a sweet and natural relationship, as they say in books. I too once met a girl in Central Park, but it is not much to remember. What I remember is the time John Wayne killed three men with a carbine as he was falling to the dusty street in Stagecoach, and the time the kitten found Orson Welles in the doorway in The Third Man.

Hatred strikes me as one of the few signs of life remaining in the world. This is another thing about the world which is upsidedown: all the friendly and likable people seem dead to me; only the haters seem alive.

There is no pain on this earth like seeing the same woman look at another man the way she once looked at you.

A good title should be like a good metaphor. It should intrigue without being too baffling or too obvious.

This Midwestern sky is the nakedest loneliest sky in America. To escape it, people live inside and underground.

Home may be where the heart is but it's no place to spend Wednesday afternoon.

Boredom is the self being stuffed with itself.