Oh, All You Immigrants And Visionaries, What

This Is What You Do. You Make A Future For Yourself Out Of The Raw Material At Hand.

There's Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined.

We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Sure, Go Ahead, Simulate Life, Using Only Ink And Paper.

I Seem To Produce A Novel Approximately Once Every Three Years.