You destroyed Doctorow’s masterpiece; the least you can do is understand my frustration.

Ignored in its day as a piece of spinner-rack schlock, ‘Trust Doesn’t Rust’ has aged magnificently.

What is forever. The blasted plains. Low scarps of rock. Nothing upon them but carcasses and things to become carcasses.

I’ll ban all books by immigrant writers until we can figure out what the hell is going on with the Western Canon.

My beach read should help me forget the roaming packs of half-feral children who will no doubt be kicking sand in my eyes and screeching like wounded monkeys. So I don’t want to read 'Lord of the Flies' or 'Blood Meridian.'

The second song was “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” by Rod Stewart. And I remember the dad just got this look in his eye and started jerking around. For a second, I thought he was having a stroke.

You said that I was trying to turn you into a thriller when you were really a literary novel. You wanted character; I knew agents wanted plot. We fought.

You may have just pulled a long-haul all-nighter from Sheboygan, but here you are, speaking Startalian and, through your casual mastery of the lingo, acquiring a fine-tasting drug, in a vaguely opium-den setting, that’s also perfectly legal.

Bukowski’s third novel, the autobiographical Garbageman, is about Los Angeles trash collector Henry Chinaski, who, when not working for the city’s Public Works Authority, writes short stories on a broken typewriter in his grimy cold-water flat.

Trump on Love: 'There’s nothing more terrible than an ex-spouse with a ten-ton axe to grind, and no agreement on how your common property is to be divided.'

The riding instructor spent most of my bagel birthday party looking forlornly at the walnut cream cheese spread, mourning her dead horse. It was so uncomfortable