I Don't Know Why I Write What

So…” Kimball Looks At His Book Helplessly. “there’s Nothing You Can Tell Me About Paul Owen?” “well.” I Sigh. “he Led What I Suppose Was An Orderly Life, I Guess. “ Really Stumped, I Offer, “he...ate A Balanced Diet.

Open The Hood Of A Car And It Will Tell You Something About The People Who Designed It, Is Just One Of Many Phrases I’m Tortured By.

The Snowy Owl Has Eyes That Look Just Like Mine, Especially When It Widens Them. And While I Stand There, Staring At It, Lowering My Sunglasses, Something Unspoken Passes Between Me And The Bird - There's This Weird Kind Of Tension, A Bizarre Pressure, That Fuels The Following, Which Starts, Happens, Ends, Very Quickly.

... Her Taste In Music Haunted My Memory And I Had To Stop At Tower Records On The Upper West Side To Buy Ninety Dollars' Worth Of Rap Cds But, As Expected, I'm At A Loss: [...] Voices Uttering Ugly Words Like Digit, Pudding, Chunk.

I'm Really Shocked When Critics Get Morally Outraged At My Fiction Because They Think I'm Condoning What's Going On. I Never Come In As The Author And Say, "hey, Okay. I'm Interrupting The Narrator Here. I'm Bret Easton Ellis, And I'm The Author."