History is sinking and only a very few seem dimly aware that things are getting bad.

I needed something--the distraction of another life--to alleviate fear.

Disintegration---I'm taking it in stride.

The images I had were of people being driven mad by living in the city. Images of parents who were so hungry and unfulfilled that they ate their own children.

That's how I became the damaged party boy who wandered through the wreckage, blood streaming from his nose, asking questions that never required answers. That's how I became the boy who never understood how anything worked. That's how I became the boy who wouldn't save a friend. That's how I became the boy who couldn't love the girl.

What keeps me interested--and it always does--is how can she be a bad actress on film but a good one in reality?

You don't market-research a novel; you really are writing it for yourself. It's a hobby, in many ways. The problem becomes what you do when you're confronted by criticism. You just don't listen to it.