What did it mean, the first time, a thinking creature looked deeply into another's eyes? Did it take a hundred thousand years before this happened or it was the first thing they did, transcendingly, the thing that made them higher, made them modern, the gaze that demonstrates we are lonely in our souls?

I don't consider myself paranoid at all. I think I see things exactly as they are.

I am not particularly distressed by the state of fiction or the role of the writer. The more marginal, perhaps ultimately the more trenchant and observant and finally necessary he'll become.

Off-camera lives are unverifiable.

Silence, exile, cunning and so on... it's my nature to keep quiet about most things. Even the ideas in my work.

People hurried past, the others of the street, endless anonymous, twenty-one lives per second, race-walking in their faces and pigments, sprays of fleetest being.

Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself.