He once wrote an eight-volume trilogy. He published his first sonnet in a paying market at the age of three. He ended a novel with the revelation that it was only a dream, and people loved him for it. He only uses prepositions when it is entirely necessary. He doesn’t misplace commas: He helps commas go into the Punctuation Protection Program. The characters in his novels send him fan letters. The New York Times apologized to him that there was no slot on their best-seller list higher than #1. He once wrote a story that consisted of a single sentence—which was serialized in three issues of The Paris Review. When he publishes a hardcover it uses up the entire world paper supply for a month just to print enough copies. When Michiko Kakutani dreamed of giving him a bad review she woke up and begged forgiveness. He is his own genre. He turned down the National Book Award because it seemed too faddish. Charles Bukowski went on the wagon after reading one of his poems. His ink-jet printer never clogs. He abandoned Emacs as a word processor because it wasn’t flexible enough. You need more adjectives to describe his adjectives than most people have in their working vocabularies. He once made up a word and Webster’s added it to their dictionary the same day. The Pope has him on speed-dial for when he needs help with a sermon. When he was in a coma after an automobile accident he made his deadline anyway. A copy-editor once queried one of his sentences—and he remained gracious. The financial crisis of 2007 was caused by him cashing one of his royalty checks. When he responds to Amazon reviews the reviewers thank him. He opened a novel with ‘It was a dark and stormy night’ and made it work. He invented metafiction—on a bet. He considers mere words to be a necessary evil. He makes cliches fresh. People read his prologues. His grocery lists have gone for six-figure advances at auction. Grammarians adjust their rules to match his realities.
He is the most interesting writer in the world.