There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.

It is not sex by itself that interests me, but its particular role in American consciousness, and in my own life.

Gatherings and, simultaneously, loneliness are the conditions of a writer's life.

In London, the weather would affect me negatively. I react strongly to light. If it is cloudy and raining, there are clouds and rain in my soul.

I look back into past history, the stored experiences or products of the imagination. I look no further forward than the evening.

Travel gives me the opportunity to walk through the sectors of cities where one can clearly see the passage of time.

It seems that what I really want is a drug that will increase my consciousness of others, not myself.