What is so fascinating about sitting around watching a bunch of pituitary cases stuff a ball through a hoop?

God, you Jews are truly exotic." Exotic? She should only know the Greenblatts. Or Mr. and Mrs. Milton Sharpstein, my father's friends. Or for that matter, my cousin Tovah. Exotic? I mean, they're nice, but hardly exotic with their endless bickering over the best way to combat indigestion or how far back to sit from the television set.

Everything is controlled by a small evil group to which, unfortunately, no one we know belongs.

Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.

I think it's my job or the artist's job, to try and find some solution or some reason to accept things. But given the grimmest reality, I feel the grimmest facts are the real facts, the true facts: that you're born, you die, you suffer, it's to no purpose, and you're gone forever, ever, ever, and that's it.

If God is everywhere, I had concluded, then He is in food. Therefore, the more I ate the godlier I would become. Impelled by this new religious fervor, I glutted myself like a fanatic.

Am I my brother's keeper? Yes. Interestingly, in my case, I share that honor with the Prospect Park Zoo.