They Had, Finally, The Only

This Was Love, I Supposed, And Eventually I Would Come To Know It. Someday It Would Choose Me And I Would Come To Know Its Spell, For Long Stretches And Short, Two Times, Maybe Three, And Then Quite Probably It Would Choose Me Never Again.

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.

You Know, As Fiction Writers, If Our Instincts Are Off, We Can't Pay Our Bills.

What Makes Humans Human Is Precisely That They Do Not Know The Future. That Is Why They Do The Fateful And Amusing Things They Do: Who Can Say How Anything Will Turn Out? Therein Lies The Only Hope For Redemption, Discovery, And-let’s Be Frank—fun, Fun, Fun! There Might Be Things People Will Get Away With. And Not Just Motel Towels. There Might Be Great Illicit Loves, Enduring Joy, Faith-shaking Accidents With Farm Machinery. But You Have To Not Know In Order To See What Stories Your Life’s Efforts Bring You. The Mystery Is All.

(such A Life)engaged Gross Quantities Of Hope And Despair And Set Them Wildly Side By Side, Like A Third World Country Of The Heart.