The truth is . . . you think what people want you to think.

Everyone has something wrong. And for a while, her heart just sort of flat lined.

Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer, maybe self-destruction is the answer.

When a regular person gets sick, they take an aspirin. When a writer gets sick, they take notes.

Shotgunning anybody in this room would be the moral equivalent of killing a car, a Barbie doll, a vacuum cleaner. We're all such products.

Peter used to say that an artist’s job is to make order out of chaos. You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize. You make sense out of senseless facts. You puzzle together bits of everything. You shuffle and reorganize. Collage. Montage. Assemble.

For six months I couldn't sleep. With insomnia, nothing's real. Everything is far away. Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.