Fiction that isn't an author's personal adventure into the frightening or the unknown isn't worth writing for anything but money.

I hate that word dysfunction.

Nothing got inside the head without becoming pictures.

I really enjoy doing both, but I didn't write nonfiction until 1994.

It took hours to turn the clock back 30 seconds.

Depression presents itself as a realism regarding the rottenness of the world in general and the rottenness of your life in particular. But the realism is merely a mask for depression's actual essence, which is an overwhelming estrangement from humanity. The more persuaded you are of your unique access to the rottenness, the more afraid you become of engaging with the world; and the less you engage with the world, the more perfidiously happy-faced the rest of humanity seems for continuing to engage with it.

The world was ending then, it's ending still, and I'm happy to belong to it again.