A dead afternoon in a dark bar was not the worst of fates.

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

I watch movies occasionally, and I watch documentaries. Virtually nothing else.

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.

People say great art is immortal. I say there's something mortal in it. It carries a glimpse of death.

Time is a corporate asset now. It belongs to the free market system. The present is harder to find... The future becomes insistent.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?