I Measure My Life Out In Books."

Above All, In My Anger, I Was Sad. Isn't That Always The Way, That At The Heart Of The Fire Is A Frozen Kernel Of Sorrow That The Fire Is Trying -- Valiantly, Fruitlessly -- To Eradicate.

An Abiding Preoccupation For Me Is How Much Of Our Lives Are Invisible And Unknown By Other People Like The Chekhov Story The Lady With The Little Dog.

Life's Funny. You Have To Find A Way To Keep Going, To Keep Laughing, Even After You Realize That None Of Your Dreams Will Come True. When You Realize That, There's Still So Much Of A Life To Get Through.

If I Had To Summarize, Most Broadly, My Concerns As A Writer, I'd Say The Question 'how Then Must We Live?' Is At The Heart Of It, For Me.

I Always Thought I'd Get Farther. I'd Like To Blame The World For What I've Failed To Do, But The Failure - The Failure That Sometimes Washes Over Me As Anger, Makes Me So Angry I Could Spit - Is All Mine, In The End. What Made My Obstacles Insurmountable, What Consigned Me To Mediocrity, Is Me, Just Me. I Thought For So Long, Forever, That I Was Strong Enough -- Or I Misunderstood What Strength Was.