The fire came up the hill faster than I could have imagined.
It was already in the house.
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Three feet of snow in June.
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All trace of your existence will be wiped from the face of the earth.

Looking over your life’s work, you think how meager it turns out to be, and of your son, who regards it with disdain.

One warm summer night when he was fifteen years old, he lit a cigarette on a dry hillside near San Bernadino, California. After all these years, he still couldn’t bear to confront the  destruction caused by that simple thoughtless act—yet he did, unceasingly. How many times had he gone to bed hoping to not wake up? But dying wouldn’t help; he would need to have never been born.

For the third time in as many months, the man at the body shop presented my repairs with an understated flourish. “It’s just like you have a brand new car,” he said. And I thought, how many times in life do you get to start over, as if nothing had ever happened?

Compulsive thinking, fitful sleeping, and endless, endless trips to the bathroom.

I’m of ten minds on the subject.

His work appeared to consist of random isolated details drawn from our entire cultural apparatus, observed at various magnifications from the front or behind.

For years I proceeded as if my activity had significance—a toddler solemnly pretend-working with blocks.

What differentiates man from animal: vulgarity.

For years I saw him once a day with his after-work drink and loosened tie, desultorily watering the lawn with his free hand. After a few minutes she’d join him, in her Jackie Kennedy white pants, smoking a cigarette and regarding him through narrowed eyes. When he’d finished his drink he’d throw the ice in the bushes before they went back inside. I never figured out if they hated each other or were deeply in love.

With each creative act he felt a little worse about himself.

In the mirror was the face of someone who didn’t know what had hit him—and until that moment hadn’t even known anything had.