Your weak point is the open, vulnerable place where you can always be hurt. Love, in all its aspects, opens the self so fully.

Art saved me; it got me through my depression and self-loathing, back to a place of innocence.

Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.

More than sex. More than money. You know, life is not endless is it? Cash, cars, cocaine, and girls. It's more than that. And there is a spiritual dimension to people...we are driven to want something more.

I wanted to invent myself as a fictional character. And I did, and it has caused a great deal of confusion.

If we make anything that lasts, it outlives us.

Academics love to make theories about a body of work, but each book consumes the writer and is the sum of his or her world.