Art is like baby shoes. When you coat them with gold, they can no longer be worn.

If you're telling me I'm not mature, that's one thing I don't cry over since as far as I can make out it's the same thing as being dead.

Men emerge pale from the little printing plant at four sharp, ghosts for an instant, blinking, until the outdoor light overcomes the look of constant indoor light clinging to them.

As I get older, my childhood self becomes more accessible to me, but selectively, in images as stylized and suspect as moments remembered from a novel read years ago.

There is the fear that you somehow neglected to say what was really yours to say.

Any activity becomes creative when the doer cares about doing it right or better.

Being able to write becomes a kind of shield, a way of hiding, a way of too instantly transforming pain into honey.