One of the odd things about being a writer is that you never reach a point of certainty, a point of mastery where you can say, Right. Now I understand how this is done.

And that phrase - 'sleeping like a baby.' Some blonde said it blithely on the subway the other day. I wanted to lie down next to her and scream for five hours in her ear.

You think you want the blue skies, the open road, but really you want the tunnel, you want to know how the story ends.

But now it seems possible that the truth about getting older is that there are fewer and fewer things to make fun of until finally there is nothing you are sure you will never be.

The reason to have a home is to keep certain people in and everyone else out.

A few nights later, I secretly hope that I might be a genius. Why else can no amount of sleeping pills fell my brain? But in the morning my daughter asks me what a cloud is and I cannot say.

A thought experiment courtesy of the Stoics. If you are tired of everything you possess, imagine that you have lost all these things.

The Buddhists say there are 121 states of consciousness. Of these, only three involve misery or suffering. Most of us spend our time moving back and forth between these three.

Also she signed away the right to self-destruct years ago. The fine print on the birth certificate, her friends call it.

The only love that feels like love is the doomed kind. (Fun fact.)

These bits of poetry that stick to her like burrs.

Because God is the giver and source of our life, He has a legitimate claim upon our lives.

You have to accept as an architect to be exposed to criticism. Architecture should not rely on full harmony.

I think the Internet and technology in general has changed everything. We can see it overseas even more with the Arab Spring and so forth.

You're suspended sixty feet up in the air, you've been up there for three hours, and all the shot requires is that you have to sort of react to getting punched in the head.

You look at Vladimir Radmanovic, this guy is cut from stone. As if Michelangelo was reading and a lightening bolt flashed before him.

I imagined calling in to my own radio show: Yeah hi, I'm a werewolf, and I'm stuck in a cabin in the woods with another werewolf and a werewolf hunter.

When suffering knocks at your door and you say there is no seat for him, he tells you not to worry because he has brought his own stool.

Trash has given us an appetite for art.

Don’t say ‘I can’t,’ say ‘I presently struggle with.’