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

Those promises we make to ourselves when we are younger, about how we mean to conduct our adult lives, can it be true we break every last one of them? All except for one, I suppose: the promise to judge ourselves by those standards, the promise to remember the child who would be so appalled by compromise, the child who would find jadedness wicked.

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...

The less you offer, the more readers are forced to bring the world to life with their own visual imaginings. I personally hate an illustration of a character on a jacket of a book. I never want to have someone show me what the character really looks like - or what some artist has decided the character really looks like - because it always looks wrong to me. I realize that I prefer to kind of meet the text halfway and offer a lot of visual collaborations from my own imaginative response to the sentences.

I had an all-Fear of Music iPod, just versions of the 11 songs from the record. No other songs allowed.

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

I’ve always been uninterested in boundaries or quarantines between tastes and types, between mediums and genres.