Art is not difficult because it wishes to be difficult, but because it wishes to be art.

I think writers like old cities and are made very nervous by new cities.

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.

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

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

Anathematization of the world is not an adequate response to the world.

There's not a strong autobiographical strain in my fiction. A few bits of fact here and there.