I didn't want to write another book about fraudulence.

I've been building a fiction in part around the Marfa poem since my brief residency there, which has kept it from receding into the past.

I wasn't aware I'd write the novel when I wrote the New Yorker story either. And the narration of their construction in 10:04 is fiction, however flickering.

Just in case God isn't dead, our astronauts carry sidearms.

The transpersonal is more awe-inspiring, more exciting than the thing we confuse it for.

The problem is that if you're self-conscious about being a person on whom nothing is lost, isn't something lost - some kind of presence? You're distracted by trying to be totally, perfectly impressionable.

I don't think "I'm going to publish this as fiction" but I think "I'm going to tell this story to a friend" and then I start telling the story in my mind as the experience transpires as a way of pretending it's already happened.