I long for the days of disorder. I want them back, the days when I was alive on the earth, rippling in the quick of my skin, heedless and real. I was dumb-muscled and angry and real. This is what I long for, the breach of peace, the days of disarray when I walked real streets and did things slap-bang and felt angry and ready all the time, a danger to others and a distant mystery to myself.

There were moments when she wasn't talking so much as fading into time, dropping back into some funnelled stretch of recent past.

Everything is barely weeks. Everything is days. We have minutes to live.

I am not comfortable with abstract writing, stories that look like essays: you have to see, I need to see.

In this country there is a universal third person, the man we all want to be. Advertising has discovered this man. It uses him to express the possibilities open to the consumer. To consume in America is not to buy; it is to dream. Advertising is the suggestion that the dream of entering the third person singular might possibly be fulfilled.

I've come to think of Europe as a hardcover book, America as the paperback version.

Off-camera lives are unverifiable.