I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.

I had been struck by the analogy between neurosis and romanticism. Romanticism was truly a parallel to neurosis. It demanded of reality an illusory world, love, an absolute which it could never obtain, and thus destroyed itself by the dream.

All of my creation is an effort to weave a web of connection with the world: I am always weaving it because it was once broken.

I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy.

Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me. I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

There is no denying that we are suffering from a collective neurosis and the novel which does not face this is not a novel of our time.

Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be...including our perception. Of it