For me, truth cracks open in the places where things do not cohere. That's how life is.

In writing novels, you have to believe in yourself or there would be no way to sustain it. But you also have to give good evidence regularly for having that faith in self-either with quality goods or with, at least, "good efforts." Working hard will do when inspiration is not forthcoming.

I love to be alone, I find it necessary, but I don't know if that's just how I am or if it's an essential ingredient to making, to art. Certainly on a practical level it is. But on the other hand, I think it's a myth that the creative inspiration is locked up inside the person and just needs a quiet space and the right "serious" brooding moment to get released.

I think any time you deal with humans and the way they exploit one another and cause pain you are in the realm of politics, on some level.

People who experience themselves as authentic are also experiencing themselves as myth, but that's not the narrative they're going with.

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.

To be alive is to listen quietly while other people talk. That's how you learn something.