Manly deeds, womanly hands.
Generally speaking, I think it is fair to say that I am a friend to the creatures of the Earth when I am not busy eating them or wearing them.
I actually own a copy of my own book; that’s how dedicated I am as an author.
My career as a magazine writer was largely prefaced on the idea of curiosity, to go on adventures and weasel my way into the lives of people that I admire.
My hope when I wrote the first book was that I would get to do it again. But it was not entirely clear that that would happen.
A stopped clock is correct twice a day, but a sundial can be used to stab someone, even at nighttime.
My type of humor is me not caring whether people know what I’m talking about or not.
When a good friend gives you his or her book, you don’t want to read it, because you’re afraid that it’s not going be what you hope it can be.
Traffic counting was very boring and cold to sit out on the streets of New Haven in five pairs of pants – well, that’s an exaggeration; it was three pairs of pants – in November for hours and hours clicking buttons counting which cars go left, right, and forward.
My biggest superhero of writing is Jorge Luis Borges, the Argentine fabulist. He’s an amazingly perceptive writer, but also willing to make a joke.
Most people presume my mustache is not real because it’s much darker than my regular hair.
You are only pretentious if you are not sincere.
I have an unfortunate compulsion. I really would rather not do it, as it is very nerve-wracking and un-fun. But when it works, there is nothing like it.
Even the worst job has its benefits and so does being a professional literary agent, and – I know I said this at the time but I still believe it – the worst job is the one that you know is wrong for you, but you still do it. You’re afraid to quit.
You know the old saying: “History is written by the winners. And also, the team of hand-picked historians that the winner keeps hidden away in an underground bunker”.