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.

Kafka is still unrecognized. He thought he was a comic writer.

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

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.

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?

It's funny to be a critic.

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