I think the pattern of my essays is, A funny thing happened to me on my way through Finnegans Wake.

There are things in American culture that want to wipe the class distinction. Blue jeans. Ready-made clothes. Coca-Cola.

Henry Miller wrote novels, but he calls his protagonist Henry, often Henry Miller, and his books are in this gray area between memoir and novel.

I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love.

Gertrude Stein really thought of Hemingway as frail. He almost married Stein.

The text is merely one of the contexts of a piece of literature, its lexical or verbal one, no more or less important than the sociological, psychological, historical, anthropological or generic.

Raymond Carver is good. I think he'll be appreciated more and more. He's an easy writer to imitate.

I have, I admit, a low tolerance for detached chronicling and cool analysis.

My assignment is what every writer's assignment is: tell the truth of his own time.

The black situation has changed. They finally realized they're Americans.

I liked Camille Paglia. I liked her even better when I heard her talk.

Positive emotions and mental states may make people more resilient to stress, like sturdy tree branches that bend but don’t break when battered by a storm

There is no love without suffering.

It [the film industry] is not a glamorous industry. It's really, really hard, and you get told all the time, "You're not this, you're not that," and so you have to find a center.

To be always doubting your ability to get what you long for is like trying to reach east by traveling west.

I'm always learning from experiences because each one is different and there are different players involved in the project at the time with their own way of doing things

A happy ending isn't really the end. It's just the place where you choose to stop telling the story.

Laughter is the only strategy that has ever worked at all for me when my world is falling apart.

Well, today, the diocese is more than ever a microcosm.

Every tear is answered by a blossom, Every sigh with songs and laughter blent, April-blooms upon the breezes toss them. April knows her own, and is content.