Not that that mystical stuff's necessarily true: The only thing that's capital-T true is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it.

This might be one way to start talking about differences between the early postmodern writers of the fifties and sixties and their contemporary descendants.

I often think I can see it in myself and in other young writers, this desperate desire to please coupled with a kind of hostility to the reader.

The man who knows his limitations, has none.

We will, of course, without hesitation use art to parody, ridicule, debunk, or criticize ideologies.

Look, man, we'd probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need fiction that does nothing but dramatize how dark and stupid everything is?

Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.