It’s infuriating to watch my peer group become less intelligent and more certain as time winds on. It’s supposed to go the other way. The more reality you experience, the less certain you should be. 

A shocked reaction to this work really just makes my point about why I wrote this novel. It’s all so obvious, and I’m bored to death.

You wouldn’t go back in time, but you would stay forever in the present moment. At least that’s how the dream went.

Christina was the John Swartzwelder and Kurt Vonnegut of this book – all of the funniest scenes and lines with the best comedic timing are hers.

At its essence, this story is about existential amnesia. What do we need to remember? What do we want to remember? And what’s the difference between them?

In retrospect, it’s obvious to me that I’m writing about my desire to feel a part of something greater than myself. I know that’s an impossibility, however.

Everyone believes there’s something more out there. And if we were just braver, had more time/money/whatever, we’d Don Quixote it up.