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Night comes to the desert all at once, as if someone turned off the light.

You know, when something like, even like a coal mine disaster, or something like this, you think that well everybody's going to make a run to be able to get out, but it happened to fast that they were just all dead.

If you live for your children, they may be smitten down and leave you desolate, or, what is far worse, they may desert you and leave you worse than childless in a cold and unfeeling world.

These poor kids in Baghdad have no running water, no showers. They wipe with baby wipes. My heart goes out to them.

They were so exhausted and seasick and all they could do was crawl up those beaches. And thousands of them lay dead in no time at all. It's unthinkable.

People live, work, walk, play, shop, study, and eat with other people. There are few desert dwellers who live alone without depending in some way on people.

People in my books tend to get their just deserts, even if not at the hands of the police.

At first blush, it seems that the young people who were shot down in the parking lot at the base of Blanket Hill gave up their lives for a dream that died with them.

I have a novel that I can write. It's about three soldiers from Somalia. Some babies have been disappearing up on 144th Street, and I speculate later on what happened to them and how they might have been got back. These guys are dead, all three, and they have a chance in the afterlife to do something they should have done when they were alive.

It's maddening in my travels to watch children dying simply because they were born in the wrong place at the wrong time.