"One of my favorite books, which I read when I was about twelve or fourteen, was Alfred Russel Wallace’s travels in the Far East in search of the birds of paradise. I thought he was a marvelous man and full of insight and compassion for the people he met. He was entirely by himself, getting on for eight years wandering around the islands of East Melanesia, western New Guinea and Borneo. He writes brilliantly and says marvelous things."

"I’ve read, reread and loved this book most of my life. It never disappoints. Twain writes with an easygoing virtuosity that makes American English the equal of any King’s. This is the book that codified American English, not Moby Dick or The Scarlet Letter. Those two great books are American Literature. Huck and Jim are America. The seeds of the tragedy of racism are planted on nearly every page of Twain’s masterpiece. Those birds are still coming home to roost."

"The great Buñuelian diptych on the oddity of the Western social meal ritual, which of course is merely a filter with a distinct mesh dense enough to catch human absurdities big and small, perverse and banal, greedy and self-delusional. Surrealist is such a silly, debased, and inadequate term for full-flower Buñuel; in fact, the best Mexican and French films are birds of paradise belonging to their own exclusive breed. You can put them only in cages with Buñuel’s name on them."