That’s life for you. All the happiness you gather to yourself, it will sweep away like it’s nothing. If you ask me I don’t think there are any such things as curses. I think there is only life. That’s enough.

Tell her that you love her hair, that you love her skin, her lips, because, in truth, you love them more than you love your own.

Instead of lowering your head and copping to it like a man, you pick up the journal as one might hold a bady's beshattered diaper, as one might pinch a recently benutted condom. You glance at the offending passages. Then you look at her and smile a smile your dissembling face will remember until the day you die. Baby, you say, baby, this is part of my novel. This is how you lose her.

As artists we are here to make you uncomfortable with the complexity of your reality.

The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art.

- Nothing else has any efficacy, I might as well be myself. - But your yourself sucks! - It is, lamentably, all I have.

I think men spend so much time passing for being men.