It frequently happens that I begin a novel with just a visual image of something, a vague sense of people in three dimensional space.

Longing on a large scale makes history.

I've always felt that my subject was living in dangerous times.

As technology advances in complexity and scope, fear becomes more primitive.

It is so much simpler to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams

Everything I've stated may prove to be total poppycock.... Perhaps time will tell. Perhaps time will do nothing of the kind.

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.