Detroit, my 'great' subject, made me the person I am, consequently the writer I am - for better or worse.

How does the poet transform his banal thoughts (are not most thoughts banal?) into such stunning forms, into beauty?

Insomniac is an impassioned work-an inspired amalgam of academic and first-hand research, memoir, analysis, and the kind of obsessive brooding we associate with the insomniac state. Much here is fascinating, and much is upsetting; here is a cri de coeur from a lifetime insomniac that is sure to appeal to the vast army of fellow insomniacs the world over.

We are linked by blood, and blood is memory without language.

Perhaps the inevitable tragedy of our complex civilization is that we must be specialists in our fields - and our fields have become increasingly difficult, so that communication is nearly impossible.

Critics sometimes appear to be addressing themselves to works other than those I remember writing.

These novels [Zombie, My Sister, My Love] are so special to me. [I don't expect that they will have nearly the same significance to anyone else.] They represent a kind of fiction I would love to pursue more or less constantly, but dare not.