Do Not Listen To The Killjoys Who

What I've Discovered More Recently Is Copies Of Books That I Didn't Represent, But That My Boss Represented When I Assisted Her On The Dollar Pile. I Won't Mention Any Names, But It Is This Profoundly Bittersweet Time Of Realizing, "oh, I Had A Wonderful Time Working On This Book And Now It Is A Dollar Relic On The Side Of The Road."

There's A Tradition In American Fiction That Is Deadly Serious And Earnest - Like The Steinbeckian Social Novel.

When A Good Friend Gives You His Or Her Book, You Don't Want To Read It, Because You're Afraid That It's Not Going Be What You Hope It Can Be.

I Suspect That When The Truth Ceases To Be Heartbreakingly Funny, We Will Be In A Better Place And A Happier Society Over All.

This Is Not To Say There Are Not Chicagoans. But I Would Suggest That They Are A Nomadic People, Whose Lost Home Exists Only In Their Minds, And In The Glowing Crystal Memory Cells They All Carry In The Palms Of Their Hands: A Great Idea Of A Second City, Lit With Life And Love, Reasonable Drink Prices At Cool Bars, And, Of Course, Blocks And Blocks Of Bright And Devastating Fire.