You know I have no patience with nonsense, said the Northeast's leading wholesaler of chattering windup mandibles.
You hope to spend your life doing what you love and need and have been fitted by nature or God or your protein-package to do: write, draw, sing, tell stories. But you have to eat.
When he walked outside again, the sky was shining like a nickel and the air was filled with the smell of sugared nuts.
War confused civilians every bit as surely as it did the armies who got lost in its fogs.
They wring their hands, should I do this, should I do that. They get seventeen different opinions. Then they do what they planned to do all along. If you give advice, they only blame you when it turns...
They were utopian, which meant they saw imperfection everywhere they looked.
They were little more than boys, and yet while they differed in race, in temperament, and in their understanding of love, they were united in this: The remnant of their boyhood was a ballast they wish...
The handy thing about being a father is that the historical standard is so pitifully low.
The handy thing about being a father is that the historic standard is so pitifully low.
Such men feel imprisoned by invisible chains—walled in, sewn up in layers of batting. For them, the final feat of autoliberation was all too foreseeable.
Sammy could not have known that one day he would come to regard all the things that their loving each other had seemed to put at so much risk--his career in comic books, his relations with his family,...
Only Aviva’s long habit of taking the temperature of her own racism, of her biases and stereotypes about young black males (or about the iron-hard perdurance of their grandmothers) enabled Aviva to se...
Nothing is boring exept to people who aren't really paying attention.
My grandparents forgave each other with the pragmatism of lovers in a plummeting airplane. There would be ample time for reproach in the event of their survival.
Mr. Feld was right; life was like baseball, filled with loss and error, with bad hops and wild pitches, a game in which even champions lost almost as often as they won, and even the best hitters were...
It's the kind of house you'd like to wake up in on Christmas morning.
It was the autobiography of a man who could not face himself, an elaborate system of evasion and lies unredeemed by the artistic virtue of self-betrayal.
It was awful luck that my pot-hobbled spermatozoa had managed to rally themselves for one last mad fallopian adventure, and that five years’ worth of love, good companionship, and the exhilaration of...
I DRANK FOR YEARS, and then I stopped drinking and discovered the sad truth about parties. A sober man at a party is lonely as a journalist, implacable as a coroner, bitter as an angel looking down fr...
Her tangle of wild black curls had enacted medusa feats in zero gravity.