Asking a critic to name his favorite book is like asking a butcher to name his favorite pig.

He's a pig and I don't allow livestock in the house.

As we passed his table, I saw that the device that imprisoned the book was clever but wicked-looking, as though the critic were holding the work - and it's author - in bondage.

I would just have to find a hog, slaughter it, butcher it, cure the meat, then fry it up. Thinking about the bacon—the potential of bacon—gives me hope. Not all is lost if bacon isn't. Seriously.

In this book masculine pronouns embrace not only the feminine but also the robotic.

Butcher of Dachau, murderer, Pontius Pilate, King Herod. You name it, it's all in there, ... On the other hand, some of the letters I received, without any question, are some of the most wonderful letters anyone could ever imagine.