Love Is Art, Not Truth. It’s Like

Everything One Reads Is Nourishment Of Some Sort - Good Food Or Junk Food - And One Assumes It All Goes In And Has Its Way With Your Brain Cells.

I Did Think Reviewers Were Supposed To Be Polite About Story Collections - Collections Are Rather Delicate Creatures In The Literary Environment - But Not Everybody Got This Memo, I Guess.

I Want To Pretend There's Such A Thing As Requited Love. As The Endurance Of Love.

Humor Comes From The Surprise Release Of Some Buried Tension.

I Had Never Feared Insomnia Before--like Prison, Wouldn't It Just Give You More Time To Read?