I was raised in rural south Jersey, and there was no culture there. There was a small library, and that was it. There was nothing else.

I longed to read everything I possibly could, and the things I read in turn produced new yearnings.

Why can't I write something that would awake the dead? That pursuit is what burns most deeply.

The artist seeks contact with his intuitive sense of the gods, but in order to create his work, he cannot stay in this seductive and incorporeal realm. He must return to the material world in order to do his work. It's the artist's responsibility to balance mystical communication and the labor of creation.

An artist wears his work in place of wounds.

What I really like is an intelligent review. It doesn't have to be positive. A review that has some kind of insight, and sometimes people say something that's startling or is so poignant.

I've written a lot of prose. I just haven't published it.