The novel doesn't come into existence until certain methods of reproducing fiction come along.

Critics? How do they happen? I know how it happened to me. I would send a poem or story to a magazine and they would say this doesn't suit our needs precisely but on the other hand you sound interesting. Would you be interested in doing a review?

Foucault was the one person I met in France that I could talk to. He was a mensch. You know whether you agree with him or not because you know what he is saying.

When somebody asks me what I do, I don't think I'd say critic. I say writer.

The reason Saul Bellow doesn't talk to me anymore is because he knows his new novels are not worth reading.

I long for the raised voice, the howl of rage or love.

I've had a tough time with Pynchon. I liked him very much when I first read him. I liked him less with each book. He got denser and more complex in a way that didn't really pay off.