I Think I Write Or Publish As

I Am Marked Like A Road Map From Head To Toe With My Repressions. You Can Travel The Length And Breadth Of My Body Over Superhighways Of Shame And Inhibition And Fear.

What I Would Really Love To Happen To Me Would Be If I Came Upon An Idea That Would Keep Me Busy Until I Die So I Wouldn't Have To Go Through The Business Of Thinking Up A New Book. But I Wouldn't Mind Writing A Long Book Which Is Going To Occupy Me For The Rest Of My Life.

When I Was A Child... I Was Watching A Snowstorm, And Hopefully Asked, 'momma, Do We Believe In Winter?'

Teaching ... Particularly In The 1990s, Teaching What Is Far And Away The Dumbest Generation In American History, Is The Same As Walking Up Broadway In Manhattan Talking To Yourself, Except Instead Of Eighteen People Who Hear You In The Street Talking To Yourself, They're All In The Room. They Know, Like, Nothing.

The Thought Of The Novelist Lies Not In The Remarks Of His Characters Or Even In Their Introspection But In The Plight He Has Invented For His Characters - In The Juxtaposition Of Those Characters And In The Lifelike Ramifications Of The Ensemble They Make: Their Density, Their Substantiality, Their Lived Existence Actualized In All Its Nuanced Particulars, Is In Fact His Thought Metabolized.