I don't have any home. Everyone I grew up with, my family, are all dead. So I feel kind of like a ghost. I'm more interested in the past.

The world is telling you through The New York Times and The New York Review of Books "You must shut up. You must never appear again. Because you are not relevant to us." So you have to fight their attempt to destroy you, fight to continue feeling.

As always, I wonder if I'll get through the winter. Then when winter is over, I wonder about the summer. But that's because the system decided which author shall be commercially successful. As I said, the most vicious of them all is The New York Times, because it pretends to be literary and impartial, and it's really this opinionated, myopic, stupid giant of incompetence.

Most journalists are broken down alcoholics.

I think fame is something that you've achieved in your inner self that becomes known to others outside you. There are really very few famous people in history.

I've never been in fashion. Not at all.

There's the world of the newspapers. They believe that what is happening is happening, which is so naïve. Because they're the first to turn on that.