I grew up when people seemed actually to be hurting themselves for their art. Of course, some of it was phony.

I thought I was writing for a fairly hip, intelligent crowd; I just thought there were more of them out there. But they're not. They're not out there waiting. They're not gonna use their intelligence on your book.

I wanted very much to be Miles Davis when I was a boy, but without the practice. It just looked like an endless road.

Love and despair go hand in hand.

You need to see a bit of hell now and then. That, and great joy.

If you are able to explain suffering, a man once told him, you weren't really there.

Where is the angry machine of all of us? Why is God such a blurred magician? Why are you begging for your life if you believe those things? Prove to me that you’re better than the rabbits we ate last night.