Sometimes limbo is a tolerable place to be stuck.

My novels are often about people who are in love or attracted to each other.

We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.

The only times we are consciously aware of the authorship of a photograph, I would argue, are when we contemplate the photographs we ourselves have taken (or those of friends and family) or when we go deliberately to the photographers monograph or exhibition. The signed image - the appropriated, the owned image - is by far the rarest in this pullulating world of pictures.

Sometimes limbo is a tolerable place to be stuck.

There are things in life we don't understand, and when we meet them, all we can do is let them alone.

Do we change every time we have a new encounter? Are we endlessly mutable? I think these are fascinating questions: it's a rich vein to tap, and I don't think I have exhausted it fully yet.