And yes, to answer you seriously, I am beginning to be... well, not bored, but tempted; afraid, but tempted. When you've been in pain for a long time, when you wake up every morning with a rising sense of hysteria, then boredom is what you want, marathon sleeps, a silence in yourself.

Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.

Of many magics, one is watching a beloved sleep: free of eyes and awareness, you for a sweet moment hold the heart of him; helpless, he is then all, and however irrationally, you have trusted him to be, man-pure, child-tender.

Well, I'm about as tall as a shotgun, and just as noisy.

The only obligation any artist can have is to himself. His work means nothing, otherwise. It has no meaning.

I used to spend all of my time projecting. I was never in the moment. It was always tomorrow or next week or two months from now. That was one of the reasons I always had this sense of anxiety.

Shoot, boy, the country's just fulla folks what knows everything, and don't understand nothing, just fullofem.