There Are Certain Prehistoric Things That Swim

Could We Betray Our Parents By Going Back To Them?

I Want A Real Encounter With Something True And Disconcerting About Peoples' Natures.

Heaven, Kiwi Thought, Would Be The Reading Room Of A Great Library. But It Would Be Private. Cozy. You Wouldn't Have To Worry About Some Squeaky-shoed Librarian Turning The Lights Off On You Or Gauging Your Literacy By Reading The Names On Your Book Spines, And There Wouldn't Be A Single Other Patron. The Whole Place Would Hum With A Library's Peace, Filtering Softly Over You Like White Bars Of Light.

It Took Me The Bulk Of My Twenties To Write One Book About A Family Of Alligator Wrestlers. Whereas Somebody Like Steve Martin Is Releasing His Latest Banjo Symphony, Having Just Completed Another Movie And Acclaimed, Best-selling Novel.

Whenever Someone Asks Me About Fantasy Versus Realism, I'm Like, "i Don't Know, Guys. Did We Not All Just Descend Into Some Underworld, Watch Strangers From Our Past Kaleidoscope Through Us According To Some Pattern That Is Both Illogical And Has Its Own Strange Melting Truth, And Then Wake Up And Have A Pop-tart?" Why Are We Talking About Fantasy And Reality Like They're Opposed?