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

I'm a firm believer that there are no rules in art. Every trajectory is different.

I've always felt that the writing I responded to most - the novels and stories that compelled me, that felt like they described the world I live in, with all of its subjectivity, irrationality, and paradox, were those which made free use of myths and symbols, fantastic occurences, florid metaphors, linguistic experiments, etcetera - to depict the experiences of relatively 'realistic' characters - on the level of their emotions and psychology, rather than in terms of what kinds of lives they led or what kind of events they experience.

I definitely care about how the concept of New York punk was constructed, and why it mattered. But I wasn't gonna do that. Partly because I'm not a great journalist...

Art is about eliminating almost everything in order to focus on the thing that you need to talk about.

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

I don't really ask of myself a given word or page count or number of hours. To work every day, that's my only fetish. And there is a physical quality to it when a novel is thriving.