Everything Outside Was Elegant And

Fear Tastes Like A Rusty Knife And Do Not Let Her Into Your House.

How Can A People Who Do Not Mean To Understand Death Hope To Understand Love, And Who Will Sound The Alarm?

I Can't Write Without A Reader. It's Precisely Like A Kiss - You Can't Do It Alone.

Fiction Is Experimentation; When It Ceases To Be That, It Ceases To Be Fiction.

My God, The Suburbs! They Encircled The City's Boundaries Like Enemy Territory And We Thought Of Them As A Loss Of Privacy, A Cesspool Of Conformity And A Life Of Indescribable Dreariness In Some Split-level Village Where The Place Name Appeared In The New York Times Only When Some Bored Housewife Blew Off Her Head With A Shotgun.