I ask one thing of literature: that it draw blood.
If it had been your exact thought you would have used my exact words.
Writing is hard. Writing about how hard writing is is somewhat easier.
To see one’s thought summarized aptly and briefly is the rare experience that is flattering and humiliating in equal measure.
The satirist’s punishment is praise from his intended victims.
An aphorism requires assembly without instructions.
One writes so as not to be interrupted.
Brevity is admired: prolixity is paid.
The great contemporary leveller of class distinctions is automated spell-checking.
Imitation is the most sincere, but parody is the most flattering.
I regret all of my exclamation points, most of my semicolons, half of my em-dashes, some of my question marks, and none of my periods.