Let’s see if I can write about something other than my heart.
Reading is entering into the consciousness of another human being.
There’s nothing wrong with her except she’s completely fucked up.
Reading is difficult. People just aren’t meant to read anymore. We’re in a post-literate age. You know, a visual age. How many years after the fall of Rome did it take for a Dante to appear? Many, many years.
How can we read when people need our help? It’s a luxury. A stupid luxury.
My mother is changing history. She is making her balalaika-smashing mother into a heroine. Does she want me to do the same for her? Is that what good children do for their parents? What about good writers?
Every moment I have ever experienced as a child is as important as every moment I am experiencing now, or will experience ever. I guess what I’m saying is that not everybody should have children.
I wonder what children whose parents have money think about in their spare time.
As every so-called creative spirit soon learns, the rest of the world doesn’t particularly give a damn.
She folds the pages of the books she reads when she wants to remember something important. Her favorite books are accordions, testaments to an endless search for meaning.
I want to be loved so badly, it verges on mild insanity.
In America, the distance between wanting something and having it delivered to your living room is not terribly great.
I am a kind of joke, but the question is: which kind? My job is to keep everyone guessing.
The humiliation of growing up a Jew in the Soviet Union, of cleaning piss-stained bathrooms in the States, of worshiping a country that would collapse as simply and inelegantly as the one he had abandoned.
The fading light is us, and we are, for a moment so brief (…) beautiful.
Michigan, with its delicious American name. How lucky one must be to live there.
After all, this is America, and you can swap out the parts of yourself that don’t work. You can rebuild yourself piece by piece.
Maybe this is who I really am.Not a loner, exactly.But someone who can be alone.
All love is socioeconomic. It’s the gradients in status that make arousal possible.
She was clothed entirely in two large swatches of leather, the leather fake and shiny in a self-mocking way, absolutely correct for 1993, the first year when mocking the mainstream had become the mainstream.
You are not what you want. You are what wants you back.
Forget the fountain of youth, pal of mine. You can live to be a thousand, and it won’t matter. Mediocrities like you deserve immortality.
Without humor, I cannot go on and I doubt many of my readers would go on either. Humor is so important. I am here to have fun here with my work.
The best thing about the iPhone is this that tells me where I am all the time. There’s never a need to feel lost anymore.