I think isolation is one of the greatest problems, an ever-growing obstacle to political solidarity.

Trust is fine, but control is better.

Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.

As is said about most writers: on the one hand all I ever did from when I was a child was read, and I was a loner, which was furthered by my parents and my upbringing.

Vice is basically the love of failure.

I do not want to have the feeling of writing "for eternity," so to speak.

Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.