Professional Southerners sicken me.

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

When you're not involved, other people's unhappiness seems to be about the funniest damn thing on earth because you think you can solve it, that you are God, that you are above this, and that their unhappiness is just such useless toil and agony. If it's you, it ceases to be a comedy.

You've got to lie to stay halfway interested in yourself.

I never pulled a loaded pistol on anybody, but it got around that I did. It got turned into lore. It's a myth. There's so much bad gun stuff.

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.

My stories do have plot. They're not just scattered language; they're controlled, toward an end.