Faulkner sat in our living room and read from Light in August. That was incredible.
I have, I admit, a low tolerance for detached chronicling and cool analysis.
It's funny to be a critic.
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.
DeLillo never seems committed to me to what he is writing. Very nice surfaces, but he's got nothing underneath.
The black situation has changed. They finally realized they're Americans.