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It took Marvel Comics years to begin to put together any worthwhile superheroines. The first crop was, to a gal, embarrassingly disappointing. They had all the measly powers that fifties and sixties male chauvinism could contrive to bestow on a superwoman.

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
Years
Male
Bestow
Measly
Males
Sixties
Embarrassingly
Powers
Marvel
Chauvinism
Begin
Disappointing
Contrive
Took
Crops
Superwoman
Together
Comics
Gals
Firsts
Sixty
Fifties
First
Worthwhile
Crop

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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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Procrastination is something you do yourself. You know: I gotta sharpen these pencils before I start. I got 20 pencils, they're looking kinda dull. Well, the pencils aren't calling you and alluring you and inviting you and offering you anything. They're just sitting there. You're the one who's procrastinating.
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I’m a man who falls in love so easily, and with such reckless lack of consideration for the consequences of my actions, that from the very first instant of entering into a marriage I become, almost by definition, an adulterer.
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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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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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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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I was thinking, too, of Superman and his fortress of solitude.
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I wanted to give readers the feeling of knowing the characters, a mental image.
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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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Art is a form of exploration, of sailing off into the unknown alone, heading for those unmarked places on the map. If children are not permitted-not taught-to be adventurers and explorers as children, what will become of the world of adventure, of stories, of literature itself?
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They lay there for a few seconds, in the dark, in the future, listening to the fabulous clockwork of their hearts and lungs, and loving each other
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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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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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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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No he could be ruined again and again by hope, but he would never be capable of belief.
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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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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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... But he believed that every great love was in some measure a terrible mistake.
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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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Man makes plans . . . and God laughs.
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