I do have people in mind when I write. I don't know precisely who they are, however, or how many of them there are.

She was afraid, and the afraid, she realized, sought opportunities for bravery in love.

You are unhappy because you believe in such a thing as happy.

I love plays. Even bad ones. I like the fact that actual live, breathing people are standing before you in tense situations that you are not personally responsible for.

Love is art, not truth. It’s like painting scenery.

All the way out I listen to the car AM radio, bad lyrics of trailer park love, gin and tonic love, strobe light love, lost and found love, lost and found and lost love, lost and lost and lost love—some people were having no luck at all. The DJ sounds quick and smooth and after-shaved, the rest of the world a mess by comparison.

Later I would come to believe that erotic ties were all a spell, a temporary psychosis, even a kind of violence, or at least they coexisted with these states.