There's always a period of curious fear between the first sweet-smelling breeze and the time when the rain comes cracking down.

Writing is a concentrated form of thinking...a young writer sees that with words he can place himself more clearly into the world. Words on a page, that's all it takes to help him separate himself from the forces around him, streets and people and pressures and feelings. He learns to think about these things, to ride his own sentences into new perceptions.

If the world is where we hide from ourselves, what do we do when the world is no longer accessible? We invent a false name, invent a destiny, purchase a firearm through the mail.

Human existence had to have a deeper source than our own dank fluids. Dank or rank. There had to be a force behind it, a principal being who was and is and ever shall be.

You need to know things the others don't know. It's what no one knows about you that allows you to know yourself.

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

A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and then finds endless ways to squander it.