Everything Was Fabulous, Even Our Breakdowns.

We Shape Ourselves By Our Imaginative Reach.

Things In Life Have No Real Beginning, Though Our Stories About Them Always Do.

Stories Are There To Be Told, And Each Story Changes With The Telling. Time Changes Them. Logic Changes Them. Grammar Changes Them. History Changes Them. Each Story Is Shifted Side-ways By Each Day That Unfolds. Nothing Ends. The Only Thing That Matters, As Faulkner Once Put It, Is The Human Heart In Conflict With Itself. At The Heart Of All This Is The Possibility, Or Desire, To Create A Piece Of Art That Talks To The Human Instinct For Recovery And Joy.

It Had Never Occurred To Me Before But Everything In New York Is Built Upon Another Thing, Nothing Is Entirely By Itself, Each Thing As Strange As The Last, And Connected.

A Lot Of People Think That Writers Are Much Cleverer Than They Actually Are. No, They're Not. But They're Emotionally Clever, And They Go Into A Character, And They Feel Something That They Weren't Entirely Aware Of Beforehand.