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If children are not permitted-not taught-to be adventurers and explorers as children, what will become of the world...?

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
Become
Children
World
Adventurers
Adventurer
Explorers
Permitted
Taught

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Man makes plans . . . and God laughs.
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I'm never going to be a Tom Clancy. And I wouldn't really want to be - not that I have anything against him, and I wish him continued success - because that's not why I'm writing novels. I'm doing it because I have to. I feel like I have to, anyway.
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My heart was simultaneously broken and filled with lust, I was exhausted, and I loved every minute of it. It was strange and elating to find myself for once the weaker.
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Every universe, our own included, begins in conversation. Every golem in the history of the world, from Rabbi Hanina's delectable goat to the river-clay Frankenstein of Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, was summoned into existence through language, through murmuring, recital, and kabbalistic chitchat -- was, literally, talked into life.
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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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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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He took a step toward her, than another, tentatively, gathering all his strength, as though about to throw a heavy switch that would, if his calculations were correct, bring light to a hundred cities and ten thousand darkened rooms. He was going to ask her to dance - that was all.
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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.
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A father is a man who fails every day.
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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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The things I keep going back to, rereading, maybe they say more about me as a reader than about the books. Love in the Time of Cholera, Pale Fire.
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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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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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[My dad] didn't do much apart from the traditional winning of bread. He didn't take me to get my hair cut or my teeth cleaned he didn't make the appointments. He didn't shop for my clothes. He didn't make my breakfast, lunch, or dinner. My mom did all of those things, and nobody ever told her when she did them that it made her a good mother.
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I have a deadline. I'm glad. I think that will help me get it done.
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Every golden age is as much a matter of disregard as of felicity.
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Novelist time is reptile time novelists tend to be ruminant and brooding, nursers of ancient grievances, second-guessers, Tuesday afternoon quarterbacks, retrospectators, endlessly, like slumping hitters, studying the film of their old whiffs.
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Never say love is like anything... It isn't.
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