We are only possible as what happened to us yesterday. We all change as well move

Roscoe was spiritually illegal, a bootlegger of the soul, a mythic creature made of words and wit and wild deeds and boundless memory.

Anger makes people stupid.

Without a sense of place the work is often reduced to a cry of voices in empty rooms, a literature of the self, at its best poetic music; at its worst a thin gruel of the ego.

You have to beat your own problematic imagination to discover what it is you're saying and how to say it and move forward into the unknown.

Everyone is interesting except the narrator in a first-person story.

There's only a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.