For the few little successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.

Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.

If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?