Consensual reality is both fragile and elastic, and it heals like the skin of a bubble.

My heart, to put it more simply, got nostalgic for the present. Always a bad sign.

Music still sort of hangs up there in the sky for me as this thing that moves me so much, but I can't really make it. It's like a car I can't drive.

Writing is a private discipline, in a field of companions.

But the day I can't shrug off a twinge of self-pity, is the day I'm washed up for keeps.

What's lucky about my career in general is that I stumbled into what every writer most wants. Not repeating myself and doing strange things has become my trademark.

There's something about the rhythms of language that correspond to the rhythms of our own bodies.