You Can Write A Great Book And

The Rest-the Vast Majority, Tens Of Thousands Of Days-are Unremarkable, Repetitive, Even Monotonous. We Glide Through Them Then Instantly Forget Them. We Tend Not To Think About This Arithmetic When We Look Back On Our Lives. We Remember The Handful Of Big Days And Throw Away The Rest. We Organize Our Long, Shapeless Lives Into Tidy Little Stories...but Our Lives Are Mostly Made Up Of Junk, Of Ordinary, Forgettable Days, And 'the End' Is Never The End.

When I Was 30 Or So - By That Time I Had Become An Assistant D.a. - I Decided I Would Try To Write A Novel. To Be Clear: I Did Not Decide To Become A Novelist. Honestly, It Never Crossed My Mind That I Could Actually Earn A Living As A Professional Novelist.

But Sometimes You Can't Figure Everything Out Because You Can't Ever Really Understand Other People. You Can't Understand Why They Do What They Do. You Just Have To Accept A Little Mystery, Ben. People Are Mysterious, The World Is Mysterious. You Can't Know Everything. You're Not Supposed To. This Isn't A History Book. It's Just The World. It's A Messy Place.

You Know, Being Confident Isn't The Same As Being Right.

The Interior Of A Teenager’s Mind Is An Endless War Between Stupid And Clever.