Writing Does Not Resurrect. It Buries.

All Salvation Is Temporary

People Are Different When You Can Smell Them And Look Up Close, You Know?

He Lit A Cigarette And Handed It To Me. I Inhaled. Coughed. Wheezed. Gasped For Breath. Coughed Again. Considered Vomiting. Grabbed The Swinging Bench, Head Spinning, And Threw The Cigarette To The Ground And Stomped On It, Convinced My Great Perhaps Did Not Involve Cigarettes.

I Wouldn’t Have A Career If It Weren’t For Independent Bookstores.

They Belong To Their Readers Now, Which Is A Great Thing–because The Books Are More Powerful In The Hands Of My Readers Than They Could Ever Be In My Hands.