Some sins have no season. We are as likely to be angry in November as to lose our rag in March. . . There is, though, something autumnal about greed, apple-cheeked and wheat-crowned, purpled knee-high in grapes; something summery in sloth, as the hammock creaks in the fly-drowsy heat; and more than a tickle of spring in lust, as birds pair and the sap rises. Among these, ingratitude is winter, the worst of seasons.
I hope I have a little talent, but a lot of it was luck. I went through setbacks. People said I looked too young, people said I wasn't good, nobody said, 'Come here, baby, we're going to make you a star. ' Early on, when I'd say, 'Can I do some anchoring?' people would look at me like I was crazy.