Life for the unwell is discontinuous and unpredictable. Things just come out of nowhere. People try but mostly do a lousy job of taking care of you.

Well, I thought, last night I paid my dues. I faced death. Now I can stay.

It's regrets that make painful memories. When I was crazy I did everything just right.

What occurs to people when they read Kurt [Vonnegut] is that things are much more up for grabs than they thought they were. The world is a slightly different place just because they read a damn book. Imagine that.

Art is lunging forward without certainty about where you are going or how to get there, being open to and dependent on what luck, the paint, the typo, the dissonance, give you. Without art, you're stuck with yourself as you are and life as you think life is.

Once you've been talked to by voices, it's not possible to go back to a world where talking voices is not possible.

Writing was a spiritual exercise for my father, the only thing he really believed in.