I have what’s called an addiction to Ativan, and Xanax. Which is preferable to admitting to an aversion to planes.

May through to June I spent my time deciding how to spend my time, which is the first, second, and third through nine thousand seven hundred and griftyfifth items on the agenda of every writer, or neurotic. I was getting ahead of myself, fretting whether the book would have to have notes or sources cited, fretting whether I’d be allowed to decide anything at all.

Congress was just a gray repository that got its OS replaced with each election.

By the highway, the Hudson – the library books straining at their delibags, corners poking. Straining my arms, throttling my hands, the numb rewards of literacy.

Women, because what are they worth? Men, because what are they worth? Music, because what is it worth? and, more importantly with music, what exactly is the it?

All books have to be researched, but readable books have their research buried.

The chips were the enablers, limited pellets of silicon that served an apparently unlimited range of functions, as like a single snackfood delivering the tastes of chocolate, vanilla, pork rind, popcorn, pretzel, and chip in every bitesized bite.

The wife said, “That’s what it said in the pamphlet: follow in the footsteps of Jesus – but it didn’t say how many steps.

The best thing about search is you always find what you want. The worst thing about search is you never find what you do not want.

But death on the page is just a typo, I said: You can’t say for example, She is dead–“she” no longer is. You can’t say for example, She was dead–death itself, a condition coterminous with eternity, renders the past tense inaccurate.