Does somebody have an explanation why there's human flesh on the hall window upstairs?

Like so many other nerdy, disaffected young people of that time, I dreamed of becoming an 'artist', i.e., somebody whose adult job was original and creative instead of tedious and dronelike.

The way I think about things and experience things is not particularly linear, and it's not orderly, and it's not pyramidical, and there are a lot of loops.

The problem is that once the rules of art are debunked, and once the unpleasant realities the irony diagnoses are revealed and diagnosed, 'then' what do we do?

Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on 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 think TV promulgates the idea that good art is just art which makes people like and depend on the vehicle that brings them the art.