The future's here already. It's just unevenly distributed.

I buried everything under layers and layers and layers of code, but the signifiers of my emotionality were there, for me.

To some extent I'm guilty of wishful thinking. The absence of the interstitial I find unbearable.

I'm a reluctant writer of non-fiction, in part because I don't really feel qualified.

Hollis thought he looked like William Burroughs, minus the bohemian substrate (or perhaps the methadone). Like someone who'd be invited quail shooting with the vice-president, though too careful to get himself shot.

I'm very primitive in terms of economics. The kind of new business in which stock gets more valuable because the company grows, but there must be limits to growth. But if publishing is expanding to fill that retail space, it seems like there may be a necessary and unpleasant correction waiting down the road. How many books to people WANT?

Three in the morning. Making yourself a cup of coffee in the dark, using a flashlight when you pour the boiling water.