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.

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

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

The point is to strip down, get protestant, then even more naked. Walk over scorched bricks to find your own soul. Your heart a searching dog in the rubble.

Randomness I love. And I still love just a holler right in the middle of an ongoing narrative. Pain or joy, ecstasy.

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

I always intended to be light and open. I misjudged the American audience.