Childhood Is A Branch Of Cartography.

A Father Is A Man Who Fails Every Day.

[i]n 1938, Superman Appeared. He Had Been Mailed To The Offices Of National Periodical Publications From Cleveland, By A Couple Of Jewish Boys Who Had Imbued Him With The Powers Of A Hundred Men, Of A Distant World, And Of The Full Measure Of Their Bespectacled Adolescent Hopefulness And Desperation.

It Never Takes Longer Than A Few Minutes, When They Get Together, For Everyone To Revert To The State Of Nature, Like A Party Marooned By A Shipwreck. That's What A Family Is. Also The Storm At Sea, The Ship, And The Unknown Shore. And The Hats And The Whiskey Stills That You Make Out Of Bamboo And Coconuts. And The Fire That You Light To Keep Away The Beasts.

He Is By Nature A Vegetarian But Would Never Consider Giving Up Meat.

Novelist Time Is Reptile Time; Novelists Tend To Be Ruminant And Brooding, Nursers Of Ancient Grievances, Second-guessers, Tuesday Afternoon Quarterbacks, Retrospectators, Endlessly, Like Slumping Hitters, Studying The Film Of Their Old Whiffs.