In Contravention Of My Belief That Any

Asthmatic Immigrant Learns To Breathe By Writing.

America Should Treasure Its Rare, True Original Voices And Mark Leyner Is One Of Them. So Treasure Him Already, You Bastards!

We Know Summer Is The Height Of Of Being Alive. We Don't Believe In God Or The Prospect Of An Afterlife Mostly, So We Know That We're Only Given Eighty Summers Or So Per Lifetime, And Each One Has To Be Better Then The Last, Has To Encompass A Trip To That Arts Center Up At Bard, A Seemingly Mellow Game Of Badminton Over At Some Yahoo's Vermont Cottage, And A Cool, Wet, Slightly Dangerous Kayak Trip Down An Unforgiving River. Otherwise, How Would You Know That You Have Lived Your Summertime Best? What Is You Missed Out On Some Morsel Of Shaded Nirvana?

After You Publish A Book, You Become A Writer And You're Supposed To Take It Very Seriously. You're Supposed To Show Up At Your Desk - Although Frankly, I Don't Have A Desk, I Write In Bed - You're Supposed To Show Up At Your Bed And Produce Work. I Think It's A Little Bit Like Work. I Like To Have Fun With It, Do Things Like Make Silly Book Trailers. I Don't Want To Take This Too Seriously.

I Don't Have Many Possessions, Apart From My Books.