I've written only two novels, but they're both long ones, and they each took a decade to write.

It's funny, but thinking back on it now, I realize that this particular point in time, as I stood there blinking in the deserted hall, was the one point at which I might have chosen to do something very much different from what I actually did. But of course I didn't see this crucial moment for what it actually was; I suppose we never do. Instead, I only yawned, and shook myself from the momentary daze that had come upon me, and went on my way down the stairs.

Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only—if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things—beautiful things—that they connect you to some larger beauty?

It's hard for me to show work while I'm writing, because other people's comments will influence what happens.

In short: I felt my existence was tainted, in some subtle but essential way.

I've written only two novels, but they're both long ones, and they each took a decade to write.

I hope we're all ready to leave the phenomenal world, and enter into the sublime?