Faulkner sat in our living room and read from Light in August. That was incredible.
The novel is always pop art, and the novel is always dying. That's the only way it stays alive. It does really die. I've been thinking about that a lot.
One more recent novelist to come along is Cormac McCarthy. Him, I like.
I never met anybody in my life who says, I want to be a critic. People want to be a fireman, poet, novelist.
I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love.
I think the pattern of my essays is, A funny thing happened to me on my way through Finnegans Wake.