Government money in the arts, I fear, can only deflect artists from their responsibility to find an authentic market for their products.

Women, fire in their crotch, won't burn out, begin by fighting off pricks, end by going wild hunting for one that still works.

Why does life feel, to us as we experience it, so desperately urgent and so utterly pointless at the same time?

A healthy male adult bore consumes each year one and a half times his own weight in other people's patience.

We all begin life as parasites within the mother, and writers begin their existence imitatively, within the body of letters.

Museums and bookstores should feel, I think, like vacant lots - places where the demands on us are our own demands, where the spirit can find exercise in unsupervised play.

I once did something right. I played first-rate basketball. I really did. And after you're first-rate at something, no matter what, it kind of takes the kick out of being second-rate.