The Real World Is Horrible.

One Already Feels Like An Anachronism, Writing Novels In The Age Of What-ever-this-is-the-age-of, But Touring To Promote Them Feels Doubly Anachronistic. The Marketplace Is Showing An Increasing Intolerance For The Time-honored Practice Of Printing Information On Paper And Shipping It Around The Country.

It's Natural For A Child To Assume That His Or Her Own Childhood Is Unremarkable.

We Have Lived Too Long. The Great Days Are Past.

The Life I Should Be Living Had Been Mislaid Through Some Clerical Error By The Cosmic Bureaucracy.

That’s What Death Did, It Treated You Like A Child, Like Everything You Had Ever Thought And Done And Cared About Was Just A Child’s Game, To Be Crumpled Up And Thrown Away When It Was Over. It Didn’t Matter. Death Didn’t Respect You. Death Thought You Were Bullshit, And It Wanted To Make Sure You Knew It.