Every Golden Age Is As Much A

[my Dad] Didn't Do Much Apart From The Traditional Winning Of Bread. He Didn't Take Me To Get My Hair Cut Or My Teeth Cleaned; He Didn't Make The Appointments. He Didn't Shop For My Clothes. He Didn't Make My Breakfast, Lunch, Or Dinner. My Mom Did All Of Those Things, And Nobody Ever Told Her When She Did Them That It Made Her A Good Mother.

Every Messiah Fails, The Moment He Tries To Redeem Himself.

The Things I Keep Going Back To, Rereading, Maybe They Say More About Me As A Reader Than About The Books. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Pale Fire.

Horror Grows Impatient, Rhetorically, With The Stoic Fatalism Of Ecclesiastes. That We Are All Going To Die, That Death Mocks And Cancels Every One Of Our Acts And Attainments And Every Moment Of Our Life Histories, This Knowledge Is To Storytelling What Rust Is To Oxidation; The Writer Of Horror Holds With Those Who Favor Fire. The Horror Writer Is Not Content To Report On Death As The Universal System Of Human Weather; He Or She Chases Tornadoes. Horror Is Stoicism With A Taste For Spectacle.

The Fundamental Truth: A Baseball Game Is Nothing But A Great Slow Contraption For Getting You To Pay Attention To The Cadence Of A Summer Day.