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He was a fugitive, lurking soul, James Leer. He didn't belong anywhere, but things went much better for him in places where nobody belonged.

Michael Chabon

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Michael Chabon
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 24
Author
Columnist
Essayist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Television Producer
Writer
Washington
District of Columbia
Leon Chaim Bach
Malachi B. Cohen
August Van Zorn
Things
Anywhere
Places
Nobody
Went
Fugitive
Didn
Lurking
Soul
Belonged
Better
James
Much
Belong

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As long as she was falling in love with me, I might as well start making her promises I didn't intend to keep.
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That's the best thing about writing, when you're in that zone, you're porous, ready to absorb the solution.
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Never say love is like anything... It isn't.
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Not only would I never want to belong to any club that would have me for a member--if elected I would wear street shoes onto the squash court and set fire to the ballroom curtains.
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It was nice standing out in the darkness, in the damp grass, with spring coming on and a feeling in my heart of imminent disaster.
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Fathering imposed an obligation that was more than your money, your body, or your time, a presence neither physical nor measurable by clocks: open-ended, eternal, and invisible, like the commitment of gravity to the stars.
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[While writing], I'll go anywhere I find that is quiet, has no internet. I have a big internet problem.
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There's nothing more embarrassing than to have earned the disfavor of a perceptive animal.
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Take care-there is no force more powerful than that of an unbridled imagination.
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I thought, I fanced, that in a moment, I would be standing on nothing at all, and for the first time in my life, I needed the wings none of us has.
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Only love could pick a nested pair of steel Bramah locks.
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I don't do a lot of foisting, because when it comes to books I don't really like to be foisted upon.
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The two dozen commonplace childhood photographs - snowsuit, pony, tennis racket, looming fender of a Dodge - were an inexhaustible source of wonder for him, at her having existed before he met her, and of sadness for his possessing nothing of the ten million minutes of that black-and-white scallop-edged existence save these few proofs.
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Nothing is boring exept to people who aren't really paying attention.
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When I'm writing solitude feels very good. But when I'm not writing it feels lonely... Having a big family solves that problem.
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Drunk, Jane spoke as though she were Nancy Drew. I was a fool for a girl with a dainty lexicon.
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