I'm not expecting the American literary community to welcome me with open arms. To them I'm just some schmuck kid who wrote some book.

I am a collection of thoughts and memories and likes and dislikes. I am the things that have happened to me and the sum of everything I've ever done. I am the clothes I wear on my back. I am every place and every person and every object I have ever come across. I am a bag of bones stuck to a very large rock spinning a thousand miles an hour.

I'm not one of those people who needs that gratification of doing, like, 10 films a year.

Most of the offers I get from Hollywood are for teen comedies. My manager thinks I'm crazy for turning down all that money, but I'm very picky.

Gosh, I couldn't even talk right until I was about 6 years old or something like that.

I do have a family, and I do have friends, and so-called friends, and acquaintances, and many other people I see only around Christmas time. Maybe they could vouch for me. Maybe they could testify to my existence and save a part of me that thinks I'm no better than a bag of potato chips.

I'd made enough made money by the time I was 12 to never work again, so it's not about a big pay check with me.