The aim of literature ... is the creation of a strange object covered with fur which breaks your heart.

The death of God left the angels in a strange position.

There was no particular point at which I stopped being promising.

Capitalism arose and took off its pajamas. Another day, another dollar. Each man is valued at what he will bring in the marketplace. Meaning has been drained from work and assigned instead to remuneration.

The privileged classes can afford psychoanalysis and whiskey. Whereas all we get is sermons and sour wine. This is manifestly unfair. I protest, silently.

Maybe writing can't be taught, but editing can be taught—prayer, fasting and self-mutilation.

The much heaves and palpitates. It is multidirectional and has a mayor.