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Every golden age is as much a matter of disregard as of felicity.

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
Felicity
Disregard
Golden
Age
Matter
Much
Every

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To me, Clark Kent in a phone booth and Houdini in a packing crate, they were one and the same thing, he would learnedly expound at WonderCon or Angoulême or to the editor of The Comics Journal . You weren't the same person when you came out as when you went in.
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... and because it was a drunken perception, it was perfect, entire, and lasted about half a second.
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Every Messiah fails, the moment he tries to redeem himself.
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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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Take care-there is no force more powerful than that of an unbridled imagination.
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If children are not permitted-not taught-to be adventurers and explorers as children, what will become of the world...?
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All novels are sequels influence is bliss.
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Miracles prove nothing except to those whose faith is bought very cheap, sir.
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So it was scary, but that's how it goes. To my great delight, I discovered that it did all belong.
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Nothing is boring exept to people who aren't really paying attention.
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The fundamental truth: a baseball game is nothing but a great slow contraption for getting you to pay attention to the cadence of a summer day.
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Childhood is a branch of cartography.
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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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Drunk, Jane spoke as though she were Nancy Drew. I was a fool for a girl with a dainty lexicon.
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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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She was a natural blonde, with delicate hands and feet, and in her youthful photographs one saw a girl with mocking eyes and a tragic smile, the course of whose life would conspire in time to transpose that pair of adjectives.
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I have a deadline. I'm glad. I think that will help me get it done.
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Bina, thank you. Bina, listen, this guy. His name wasn't Lasker. This guy-' She puts a hand to his mouth. She has not touched him in three years. It probably would be too much to say that he feels the darkness lift at the touch of her fingertips against his lips. But it shivers, and light bleeds in among the cracks.
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There was something unmistakably exultant about the mess that Rosa had made. Her bedroom-studio was at once the canvas, journal, museum, and midden of her life. She did not “decorate” it she infused it.
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Jerome Charyn is one of the most important writers in American literature and one of only three now writing whose work makes me truly happy to be a reader.
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