And here I arrive at my point. The point is that everyone has a different dream. The point is that it is a grave mistake to assume your dream is in any way shared, that it’s a common dream. Not only is it not shared, not common, there is no reason to assume that other people don’t find you and your dream utterly revolting.

Eventually, I decided that if I was going to really write a novel, I couldn't do it in New York City while holding down a job. You need a constant money source to live in New York City unless you're independently wealthy, which I'm not.

I don't quite see the 20th century as one of chaos. But I believe in certain inevitable outcomes of a materialist nature.

There was lots of pleasure in writing The Flamethrowers. Then again, what is pleasure? Some pleasure is easy and other kinds are never quite felt, existing only as the residue of hard work, or more as satisfaction than thrill.

I guess I'm not really fond of just chit-chatting. I want to learn something and have an experience.

I was doing that thing the infatuated do, stitching destiny onto the person we want stitched to us.

Authenticity is too big a subject to just toss in with the question about the photographs!