I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.

I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. “None of this is worth it!” That’s what I’d like people to hear.

My circumstances of unrelieved responsibility and permanent distraction necessitated the short story form.

Writers will be judged by what they write.

Art doesn't have to do anything. It just has to be there for the fierce pleasure we take in doing it.

My life is going to change. I feel it.

There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.