I Make My Living Now As A

Real Love Isn't Ever Ambivalent.

I Don't Want To Name Names Because They'd Be Mad At Me If I Did, But People Who Are Significant Novelists Can't Get Published By Real Publishers At This Point, Or Have To Go Through Two Years Of Trying After Writing A Novel That's Taken Them Five Or Six Years And Simply Can't Get The Thing In Print. Or It Gets In Print And It Doesn't Get Reviewed In The New York Times Book Review And Disappears Without A Trace. I Mean, It's Terrifying. I Don't Know How Anybody Can Stand It. It's Such An Enormous Amount Of Work And The Economics Of It Are Really Quite Brutal.

I Just Wondered What A Thing It Would Be...if Overnight Everything You Owe Anything To, Justice, Or Love, Had Really Gone Away. Free. It Would Be...heartless Terror. Yes. Terrible, And... Very Great. To Shed Your Skin, Every Old Skin, One By One And Then Walk Away, Unemcumbered, Into The Morning.

You Have A Strange Relationship With Calamity When You're A Writer: You Write About It; As An Artist, You Objectify And Fetishize It. You Render Life Into Material, And That's A Creepy Thing To Do.

Love Is The World's Infinite Mutability; Lies, Hatred, Murder Even, Are All Knit Up In It; It Is The Inevitable Blossoming Of Its Opposites, A Magnificent Rose Smelling Faintly Of Blood.