Reading and writing are the same thing; it's just one's the more active and the other's the more passive. They flow into each other.

I never have been a musician; I'm not actually capable. Because I can't even pretend to acquire the gift, all of my first feelings about art are still attached to music. I look at it yearningly, I look at it wonderingly. I behold it from afar, as something unattainable, something outside of myself, from which I can take nourishment, but I can't domesticate and master.

It's now expected of me that I will defy expectation, so I really generally seem to be free to write what I want.

I tend to think of myself as a highly emotional writer. It's all coming out of the deepest feelings, out of dreams, out of the unconscious.

I grew up with an artist father, and my parents' friends were also mainly artists or writers, so he connects what I do with his example.

Life is fundamentally up for grabs

How often had that hydrant even been opened? Did you jet water through a car window, what, twice at best? Summer burned just a few afternoons long, in the end. As for flying, Dose never even glanced at the sky. Flying was a summer within a summer, a whim. So why think of it at all?