My Backyard Was Replete With

It Is A Special Kind Of Homelessness To Be Evicted From Your Dreams.

It Remains Unbelievable To Me That I Have Any Readers Beyond My Own Blood Relations - It's A Crazy, Wild Gift.

Granana Doesn't Understand What The Big Deal Is. She Didn't Cry At Olivia's Funeral, And I Doubt She Even Remembers Olivia's Name. Granana Lost, Like, Ninety-two Million Kids In Childbirth. All Of Her Brothers Died In The War. She Survived The Depression By Stealing Radish Bulbs From Her Neighbors' Garden, And Fishing The Elms For Pigeons. Dad Likes To Remind Us Of This In A Grave Voice, As If It Explained Her Jaundiced Pitilessness: "boys. Your Grandmother Ate Pigeons."

So Much Of The Way Books Get Classified Has To Do With Marketing Decisions. I Think It's More Useful To Think Of Literary Books And Sci-fi/fantasy Books As Existing On A Continuum.

I Came To Hate The Complainers, With Their Dry And Crumbly Lipsticks And Their Wrinkled Rage And Their Stupid, Flaccid, Old-people Sun Hats With Brims The Breadth Of Saturn's Rings.