The mind is an intricate mechanism that can be run on the fuels of both victory and defeatism.

My career still strikes me as miraculous. That a boy raised on Marine bases in the South, taught by Roman Catholic nuns in backwater Southern towns that loathed Catholics, and completed his education with an immersion into The Citadel—the whole story sounds fabricated, impossible even to me. Maybe especially to me.

Moonrise is a fabulous novel and my damn wife wrote it and that’s me up there near Highlands shouting it out to the hills.

I was trying to unravel the complicated trigonometry of the radical thought that silence could make up the greatest lie ever told.

I lived with the terrible knowledge that one day I would be an old man still waiting for my real life to start. Already, I pitied that old man.

The desolate narrowness, the definitive thinness of experience is both the vainglory and the dead giveaway of a provincial man.