I think that any time a person comes face-to-face with their own mortality - close enough to Death that they can smell its breath - they have a choice: 1) Fall to pieces; 2) Reassemble yourself and keep walking.

In contrast to how my father treated me, I won't hit him, I won't call him evil, I'll give him affection, and I'll pay attention to him.

In my long, long years toiling around the publishing industry, I've found that women simply don't stick to the writing with the same fervor that men do.

Though your major media kept smacking me upside the head with the word "multicultural," you goddamned Australians are the most racist bunch of people I've ever seen in my life.

I believe "human sexuality" is one of the most ridiculous aspects of being a human, and here I was, facing publications whose prevailing editorial slant sought to portray our basic rutting instincts as something "ennobling" and "empowering," to depict women who were fundamentally whores and predominantly unstable as "sex workers" and "goddesses."

"Liberating" is a gay word, so let's phrase it this way: I know everything about me and still manage to be good friends with myself, so nothing anyone says that's truthful about me ever bothers me.

I certainly didn't emerge from prison regretting anything I ever wrote, nor did I feel remorse for my crime in the least.