The Incessant Perpetuation Of Collective Fantasies Makes

When I Came To America, I Was Already A Writer, Already Published In Bosnia. I Was Planning To Go Back, But I Had No Choice But To Stay Here After The Civil War, So I Enrolled At Northwestern In A Master's Program And Studied American Literature.

I'm Not Nervous If I Think About Something For Nine Years And Then I Don't Write It. Even If It Fades It Doesn't Concern Me. It'll Come Back If It's Worth It.

I Am Itching To Criticize Some Well-regarded Writers' Works, But I Am Not Doing It Because I Am Perfectly Aware That My Critique Could Easily Be Reduced To Envy Or Just Plain Meanness.

There Are Moments In Life When It Is All Turned Inside Out--what Is Real Becomes Unreal, What Is Unreal Becomes Tangible, And All Your Levelheaded Efforts To Keep A Tight Ontological Control Are Rendered Silly And Indulgent.

A Particular Piece Of Music Attaches Itself To The Piece I'm Writing, And There Is Nothing Else I Can Listen To. Every Day I Return To The Same Space To Write, The Music Providing Both The Walls And The Pictures On The Walls.