Nothing Is Boring Exept To People Who

I Have Confused Ideas Of Deity, Heavily Influenced By Mind-altering Years Of Reading Science Fiction, That Do Not Often Trouble Me, But One Thing I Know For Certain, And Have Known Since The Age Of Five Or Six, Is That I Really Can't Stand The God Of Abraham. In Fact, I Consider Him To Constitute The Pattern To Which Every True Asshole I Have Ever Known In My Life Has Pretty Well Conformed.

It Struck Me That The Chief Obstacle To Marital Contentment Was This Perpetual Gulf Between The Well-founded, Commendable Pessimism Of Women And The Sheer Dumb Animal Optimism Of Men, The Latter A Force More Than Any Other Responsible For The Lamentable State Of The World.

Every Time Another Review Comes Out I Let Out A Deep Breath.

Novelist Time Is Reptile Time; Novelists Tend To Be Ruminant And Brooding, Nursers Of Ancient Grievances, Second-guessers, Tuesday Afternoon Quarterbacks, Retrospectators, Endlessly, Like Slumping Hitters, Studying The Film Of Their Old Whiffs.

Procrastination Is Something You Do Yourself. You Know: "i Gotta Sharpen These Pencils Before I Start. I Got 20 Pencils, They're Looking Kinda Dull." Well, The Pencils Aren't Calling You And Alluring You And Inviting You And Offering You Anything. They're Just Sitting There. You're The One Who's Procrastinating.