The point is this: that the stream of memory may lead you to the river of understanding. And understanding, in turn, may be a tributary to the river of forgiveness.

Its the most breathtakingly ironic things about living: the fact that we are all-identical twins included-alone. Singular. And yet what we seek-what saves us-is our connection to others.

I try to stick with what moves me or teaches me about myself, same thing I hope the novels do for others.

My Italian-American heritage, of which I'm very proud and with which I identify strongly, surfaces in several of my novels.

I am not a smart man, particularly, but one day, at long last, I stumbled from the dark woods of my own, and my family's, and my country's past, holding in my hands these truths: that love grows from the rich loam of forgiveness; that mongrels make good dogs; that the evidence of God exists in the roundness of things. This much, at least, I've figured out. I know this much is true.

Eastern Connecticut is very different from Western; we're more liverwurst than pâté, more bowling than polo.

Look, don't just stare at the pages," I used to tell my students. "Become the characters. Live inside the book.