Only art means anything.

More is happening out there than we are aware of. It is possibly due to some unknown direful circumstance.

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.

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

The helpful thought for which you look Is written somewhere in a book.

I really think I write about everyday life. I don't think I'm quite as odd as others say I am. Life is intrinsically, well, boring and dangerous at the same time. At any given moment the floor may open up. Of course, it almost never does; that's what makes it so boring.