My Heart And The Elevator, A Plummet

I'm Gregarious With Writers And Never With Manuscripts . . . I [like To] Create The Illusion Of Seamless Perfection, So I Alone Know The Flawed Homely Process Along The Way.

I've Just Finished Reading Reality Hunger And I'm Lit Up By It-astonished, Intoxicated, Ecstatic, Overwhelmed. . . . It Really Is An Urgent Book: A Piece Of Art-making Itself, A Sublime, Exciting, Outrageous, Visionary Volume.

I've Had The Odd Good Luck Of Starting Slowly And Building Gradually, Something Few Writers Are Allowed Anymore. As A Result I've Seen Each Of My Books Called The Breakthrough. And Each Was, In Its Way.

I Just Noticed Recently That In One Book After Another I Seem To Find An Excuse To Find Some Character Who, To Put It Idiotically Simply, Is Allowed To Talk Crazy.

No Matter How Enormous A Novel May Become, The Physical Act Of Reading Determines That There's No Way It Can Become A Communal Experience. To Read Is Intimate. It's Almost Masturbatory.