If I do not seem to be mentioning anything I’ve read lately, it is because I am in one of those periods of undifferentiated flux or something in which I am reading about fifty, at a minimum, books at once, so of course I seldom finish one. Eventually this phase will pass, and I’ll discover I have about ten pages to go in all of them, and will sit down and systematically finish them, one after another.

I have given up considering happiness as relevant.

All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.

Vice is nice, but a little virtue won't hurt you.

I don't know what it is I'm doing. But it's not that. Despite all evidence to the contrary.

I feel that I am doing the minimum amount of damage to other possibilities that may take place in a reader's head.

I've never had any intentions about anything. That's why I am where I am today, which is neither here nor there, in a literal sense.