We love each other, that’s true whatever it means, but we aren’t good at it; for some it’s a talent, for others only an addiction.

When I was 16, I started publishing all kinds of things in school magazines.

As we know from the study of history, no new system can impose itself upon a previous one without incorporating many of the elements to be found in the latter.

I'm working on my own life story. I don't mean I'm putting it together; no, I'm taking it apart. If you'd wanted the narrative line you should have asked earlier, when I still knew everything and was more than willing to tell. That was before I discovered the virtues of scissors, the virtues of matches.

we lived in the gaps between the stories

Don't eat anything you aren't prepared to kill. Don't kill anything you aren't prepared to eat.

Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we're still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It's all the same impulse. What do we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get? At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.