You can boast about anything if it's all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.

My imagination will get me a passport to hell one day.

A kind of second childhood falls on so many men. They trade their violence for the promise of a small increase of life span. In effect, the head of the house becomes the youngest child.

To be alive at all is to have scars.

Writing to me is a deeply personal, even a secret function and when the product I turned loose it is cut off from me and I have no sense of its being mine. Consequently criticism doesn't mean anything to me. As a disciplinary matter, it is too late.

Unless a reviewer has the courage to give you unqualified praise, I say ignore the bastard.

How can we live without our lives? How will we know it's us without our past?