It seems like the big difference between good art and so-so art lies somewhere in the art's heart's purpose, the agenda of the consciousness behind the text. It's got something to do with love, with having the discipline to talk out of the part of yourself that can love instead of the part that just wants to be loved.

It looks like you can write a minimalist piece without much bleeding. And you can. But not a good one.

I've noticed that, while I can't help but respect and sort of envy the moral nerve of people who truly do not care what others think of them, people like this also make me nervous, and I tend to do my admiring from a safe distance.

I don’t really mean what I’m saying.

CPR to those elements of what’s human and magical that still live and glow despite the times’ darkness.

Fiction either moves mountains or it's boring; it moves mountains or it sits on its ass.

It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive, day in and day out.