I told the doctor I was overtired, anxiety-ridden, compulsively active, constantly depressed, with recurring fits of paranoia. Turns out I'm normal.

If you are not able to communicate successfully between yourself and yourself, how are you supposed to make it with the strangers outside?

Jesus died to forgive our sins. Dare we make his martyrdom meaningless by not committing them?

Eventually, if it's on your mind, you stumble on it. You need a certain amount of luck and persistence.

When people started reading me and talking to me about the work, they didn't say how funny, or how satiric, or how brilliant, or how this or how that, they said, how'd you get away with it? How'd you get that into print?

I'm well beyond dyslexic: I have no sense of direction; I never know where I am.

There's some brain damage, but it may be that very brain damage that allows me to do the work I do.