Lucky people develop a relationship with a certain kind of art that becomes spiritual, almost religious, and doesn’t mean, you know, church stuff, but it means you’re just never the same.

I felt the sort of soaring, ceilingless tedium that transcends tedium and becomes worry.

God, what a ghastly enterprise to be in, though-and what an odd way to achieve success. I'm an exhibitionist who wants to hide, but is unsuccessful at hiding; therefore, somehow I succeed.

I know I'm paranoid, but am I paranoid enough?

The interesting thing is why we're so desperate for this anesthetic against loneliness.

The reader becomes God, for all textual purposes. I see your eyes glazing over, so I'll hush.

It’s a very American illness, the idea of giving yourself away entirely to the idea of working in order to achieve some sort of brass ring that usually involves people feeling some way about you – I mean, people wonder why we walk around feeling alienated and lonely and stressed out.