Snowball Just Leads Elves On, Elves And

Even As A Child I Was Fascinated By Death, Not In A Spiritual Sense, But In An Aesthetic One. A Hamster Or Guinea Pig Would Pass Away, And, After Burying The Body, I'd Dig It Back Up: Over And Over, Until All That Remained Was A Shoddy Pelt. It Earned Me A Certain Reputation, Especially When I Moved On To Other People's Pets. "igor," They Called Me. "wicked, Spooky." But I Think My Interest Was Actually Fairly Common, At Least Among Adolescent Boys. At That Age, Death Is Something That Happens Only To Animals And Grandparents, And Studying It Is Like A Science Project.

The Good Thing About England - Like, If I Were In France, All People Would Be Doing Is Rubbing My Nose In Donald Trump. As If I Voted For Him. Just Rubbing My Nose In Him. And In England, They'd Be Rubbing My Nose In It Too, Except For Brexit. So That Means They Can't Rub My Nose In Anything!

Given Enough Time, I Guess Anything Can Look Good. All It Has To Do Is Survive.

There Are Certain People In My Life Who Didn't Care To Be In My Book. And So I Cut Them Out. And I Had Broken Up With Somebody. And I Was, You Know, Really Upset And Depressed. And So That Was, You Know, Reasons To Keep Going.

At First, Writing For The New Yorker Was Very Scary To Me. I Couldn't Imagine Anything That I Would Write In That Typeface.