Cherie, keep walking. Shut your eyes. We are headed for the bridge. We are going to cross it.
For the writer, the serial killer is, abstractly, an analogue of the imagination's caprices and amorality; the sense that, no matter the dictates and even the wishes of the conscious social self, the life or will or purpose of the imagination is incomprehensible, unpredictable.
I'm nobody's daughter now. I'm through with that.
One of life's minor satisfactions is forgetting.
A diverse and lively collection, the highest art of the interview.
Never be ashamed of your subject, and of your passion for your subject.