My Job Is To Have

Construed As Turf, Home Just Seems A Provisional Claim, A Designation You Make Upon A Place, Not One It Makes On You. A Certain Set Of Buildings, A Glimpsed, Smudged Window-view Across A Schoolyard, A Musty Aroma Sniffed Behind A Garage When You Were A Child, All Of Which Come Crowding In Upon Your Latter-day Senses -- Those Are Pungent Things And Vivid, Even Consoling. But To Me They Are Also Inert And Nostalgic And Unlikely To Connect You To The Real, To That Essence Art Can Sometimes Achieve, Which Is Permanence.

I Have A Theory... That Someplace At The Heart Of Most Compelling Stories Is Something That Doesn't Make Sense.

Literature Should Not Be Exclusive, It Should Be Inclusive. My General View Is That You Can't, Based On Your Own Experience, Project What A Book Will Do For Someone Else. That's Why I Don't Review Books.

I Know You Can Dream Your Way Through An Otherwise Fine Life, And Never Wake Up, Which Is What I Almost Did.

The Ways In Which Things Are Superficially Similar But Also Distinct Is Interesting To Me.