I Write Five, Six Days A Week.

One Should Learn From A Book. Books Have A Lot To Teach Us. They Have A Lot Of Empathy To Impart To Us, But They Should Also Be Fun. This Stuff Is Fun! You Shouldn't Pick Up A Book And Say, "oh My God, I'm Gonna Better Myself By Reading This." You May Better Yourself By Reading This, But Who Cares? Just Have Fun.

Then I Celebrated My Wall Of Books. I Counted The Volumes On My Twenty-foot-long Modernist Bookshelf To Make Sure None Had Been Misplaced Or Used As Kindling By My Subtenant. “you’re My Sacred Ones,” I Told The Books. “no One But Me Still Cares About You. But I’m Going To Keep You With Me Forever. And One Day I’ll Make You Important Again.” I Thought About That Terrible Calumny Of The New Generation: That Books Smell.

A Writer Or Any Suffering Artist-to-be Is Just An Instrument Too Finely Set To The Human Condition [...]

The Memoirs I Love Are All Very Intense. If You're Going To Do A Memoir And Protect Yourself, What The Hell's The Point? Just Do Fiction.

Summer Is A Latvian Chicken. We Make Foolish Choices. We Think We’re Young Again. We Run With Outstretched Arms Toward An Object Of Love And It Pecks Us And Pecks Us Until We’re Standing There Snot-nosed And Teary In The Middle Of Astor Place And The Sun Sets Fire To Our Penguin Shirts And All That Is Left To Do Is Go To Our Air-conditioned Homes And Ponder The Cruelty Of Our Finest Season.