My features have blunted with the passage of time, my reflection only faintly resembles how I see myself. Gravity demands payback for the years my body has resisted it.

I long ago abandoned myself to a blind lust for the written word. Literature is my sandbox. In it I play, build my forts and castles, spend glorious time.

I can imagine her memories of the novel, or, more likely, of who she was and how she felt when reading it.

She felt the intimate loss of who was meant to become.

The receding perspective of my past smothers my present. Remembering is the malignancy that feasts on my now.

Memory chooses to preserve what desire cannot hope to sustain.

We rarely consider that we're also formed by the decisions we didn't make, by events that could have happened but didn't, or by our lack of choices, for that matter.

No nostalgia is felt as keenly as nostalgia for things that never existed.

He may be my half brother, but we're not related. A chasm of incommunicable worlds lies between us.

I also understand that you have to lie to yourself to survive in a bad marriage, you have to delude yourself if you want to carry on in this life.

When God blesses you, the highest form of gratitude is open-handedness.

Every really new idea looks crazy at first.

The stomach is the teacher of the arts and the dispenser of invention.

I don't have to edit myself. I get to be me, warts and all, and that's ultimately what people want, and to trust each other implicitly.

Live the life you've dreamed.

If you’re worrying about the past, you’ve got a good chance of screwing up the future.

Beware of self-righteousness in every possible shape and form. Some people get as much harm from their "virtues" as others do from their sins.

The purpose of art is to collide the intellectual and visceral together at the highest speed possible.

Acting is not about knowing all this stuff; it's about character.

I'm seen as somebody who writes for adults because I'm an older man myself. Some of them find me, and a lot of them don't.