When I read obituaries I always note the age of the deceased. Automatically I relate this figure to my own age. Four years to go, I think. Nine more years. Two years and I'm dead. The power of numbers is never more evident than when we use them to speculate on the time of our dying.

Off-camera lives are unverifiable.

He'd once told me that the art of getting ahead in New York was based on learning how to express dissatisfaction in an interesting way. The air was full of rage and complaint. People had no tolerance for your particular hardship unless you knew how to entertain them with it.

I understand there are some men who are only half here. Let's not say men. Let's say people. People who are more or less obscure at times.

I've got death inside me. It's just a question of whether or not I can outlive it.

If I were a writer, how I would enjoy being told the novel is dead. How liberating to work in the margins, outside a central perception. You are the ghoul of literature. Lovely.

There's a connection between the advances that are made in technology and the sense of primitive fear people develop in response to it.