My Mother Once Told Me She Thought

Just Because Life's Meaningless Doesn't Mean We Can't Experience It Meaningfully.

I'm With Milton And The Rolling Stones: I Don't Find The Devil An Unsympathetic Character. But In Any Case, My Fiction Is Populated As Much By People Who Do Good As It Is By Those Who Do Bad. I'm Interested In Imaginatively Accommodating As Much Of The Human As Possible, For Which You Need Both Moral Extremes And Everything In Between.

Home Pulls. It Draws You Back To Tell You You Don't Belong.

The First Thing To Say About Eve Is That She Was A Big Improvement On The Adam Design, Or That Adam Was An Extremely Misguided Variation On The Eve Design. (consider Testicles. Two Concentrated Nuclei Of Absolute Vulnerability. Where? Dangling Between The Legs. I Rest My Case.)

Every Now And Then Life Sold You An Illusion Of Design. A Coincidence, A Parallel, A Sledgehammer Symbol. The Goods Were Always Faulty. You Forked Over The Cash Only To Discover They'd Fallen Apart By The Time You Got Home. But Life Kept At It. Life Couldn't Help It. Life Was A Compulsive Salesman.