Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking

Art Is Amoral, Whether We Accept This Or Not; It Does Not Take Sides. The Finest Fictions Are Cold At Heart.

When I Finish A Sentence, After Much Labor, It's Finished. A Certain Point Comes At Which You Can't Do Any More Work On It Because You Know It Will Kill The Sentence.

All One Wants To Do Is Make A Small, Finished, Polished, Burnished, Beautiful Object . . . I Mean, That's All One Wants To Do. One Has Nothing To Say About The World, Or Society, Or Morals Or Politics Or Anything Else. One Just Wants To Get The Damn Thing Done, You Know? Kafka Had It Right When He Said That The Artist Is The Man Who Has Nothing To Say. It's True. You Get The Thing Done, But You Don't Actually Have Anything To Communicate, Apart From The Object Itself.

I Don't Make A Distinction Between Men And Women. To Me They Are Just People.

I Had Never Liked, Even Feared A Little, This Wild Reach Of Marsh And Mud Flats Where Everything Seemed Turned Away From The Land, Looking Off Desperately Toward The Horizon As If In Mute Search For A Sign Of Rescue.