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

I don't write about anything I don't love even if that love sometimes gets all screwed up and tormented.

All paths lead nowhere; choose one with heart...

I can't bear the silent ringing in my skull.

The book is openly a kind of spiritual autobiography, but the trick is that on any other level it's a kind of insane collage of fragments of memory.

I'm a serial deconstructor of my own authority in certain areas.

Once you fall into habits, I think, you're dead as an artist. You have to challenge yourself and never rest on your laurels, never think about what you've done in the past.